


A Tale or Two

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Original Character(s), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:12:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 125,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Separated from their company in Mirkwood and barely surviving an attack, Bilbo Baggins and Thorin Oakenshield find their hopes of finishing their quest cut short.<br/>In the meantime, Fili has to deal with the absence of his uncle, the hostility of Mirkwood, and the sudden and largely unwelcome responsibilities.<br/>How will a princeling fueled by nothing more than quickly faltering bravado manage without the much-needed support, and what do a King under the Mountain without the Mountain and a hobbit out of his hole and out of his depth have to offer to each other, really? (<i>temporarily abandoned, but not forgotten!</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Spanner In The Works

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this was written over an atrocious amount of time, and largely for my own pleasure, so I'm not quite sure about it. At all. I realize the first chapter is quite lengthy, so I'm really just curious if anyone will be able to read through it all :')

They come at night, without a warning or a flash of light, and suddenly, there’s all too many sounds, desperate groans and surprised gasps and the fumbling of feet and weapons, and even the sound of metal rending flesh every now and then. Bilbo jolts awake in the midst of it when someone trips over him, and jumps to his feet immediately when an orc growls far too close to him.

Absolute chaos engulfs and inevitably scatters the company - despite Thorin’s shouted orders to stick together, the fight spreads as dwarves and orcs alike encounter the darkness of the forest and find it to their disadvantage. Bilbo slips his ring on almost immediately, dodging a hulking body charging in his direction, and drawing Sting. There’s not much fighting to be done, he realizes quickly as he staggers in the direction of one familiar voice or another - hobbit eyes get accustomed to darkness rather quickly, but that doesn’t extend to the absolute pitch black of Mirkwood, apparently. He relies solely on his hearing - the fight seems to be taking place in every direction at once, and sometimes very far off, and sudden dread overcomes Bilbo, at being missed in the ruckus and forgotten, left all alone...

He is almost toppled over then, as someone elbows him in the side. A ferocious growl, and Bilbo has enough sense to jump back and gasp: “It’s me, it’s Bilbo!”, slipping the ring off again.

“Take cover somewhere,” a voice he recognizes as Thorin’s comes from the black, “keep your head down.”

“So should you, we should all, no, _listen_ -” he grabs blindly and catches folds of fabric as the dwarf is about to run off again.

“Bilbo!” Thorin snarls.

“Run away and keep quiet until they’ve stopped searching, it’s the only way,” Bilbo stutters quickly under his breath, gripping what seems to be Thorin’s sleeve almost desperately, “please, let’s run, else we’ll die in this dreadful darkness...”

 

For a split moment, the only sound seems to be the ragged heaving of Thorin’s breath, and then one large hand slaps over Bilbo’s smaller one, and doesn’t let go.

“You may save all of us yet,” Thorin utters tensely, and then proceeds to shout in Khuzdul, which is followed immediately by furious groans from the enemy as the dwarves listen to whatever the order from their leader was.

“Run!” Thorin yells, “shake them off! Come,” he tells Bilbo then and yanks at his hand, pulling the poor hobbit along.

 

They trip and stumble over branches and stumps and rocks as they go - it’s a miracle they don’t hit any trees, really, Bilbo thinks as he concentrates on keeping his legs from tangling together, and on his hand not slipping from Thorin’s grasp. He cannot tell if they’re being followed - the huffing and stamping seems to be ever present.

“Stop,” he gasps, “we should... stop, and...”

He yelps as Thorin grabs his elbow and he swivels and slams against the dwarf’s chest in full speed. Thorin’s hands are immediately on his shoulders to keep him from falling.

“Quiet,” he hisses, “not a sound now.”

They are pressed against a tree, Bilbo realizes, the terrain under their feet unsteady and muddy. He tries to calm his breathing, and they listen. There is definitely something approaching, a runner, making too much noise to be a dwarf, Bilbo thinks.

“Down,” he breathes out and drops to his knees, pulling Thorin with him, the sounds of it disguised by the approaching foe. Thorin huffs in surprise.

“Harder to run into this way, I reckon,” Bilbo mutters, and holds onto Thorin’s fur for balance.

“Quiet,” Thorin repeats.

The foe is near now, the grunts and angry huffs unmistakable, and Bilbo shudders inadvertently. His hearing must be distorted somehow, because seemingly in the next second, the orc is at them, almost running into them, but Thorin draws Orcrist and slashes and a huge mass of a body hits the ground about an inch from Bilbo, all of that happening in the span of about one blink of an eye in the confused hobbit’s mind.

“Up,” Thorin commands gruffly, “silence.”

Bilbo scrambles to his feet and almost trips and falls over the dead orc again. Thorin’s firm grip  on his shoulder steadies him, and they listen. And listen. The forest is dreadfully silent now, no more foes approaching, but also no dwarves searching for each other... Bilbo shivers, the night’s cold catching him suddenly and all at once.

“What are orcs doing in Mirkwood?” he breathes out desperately.

“...They usually wouldn’t dare venture in,” Thorin explains, “but I think it’s fair to say we’ve angered them a good amount.”

“Golly me,” Bilbo sighs, “...well, shouldn’t we... search for the rest?”

“In time. Get some sleep.”

“What- _here_? Now?”

Something that sounds a lot like a huff of quiet laughter comes from Thorin.

“You yourself said we need to wait until they’ve given up searching for us. That might take the whole night, or they might wait until daylight and return. Either way, it’s no use moving around much now. Your quick thinking might have saved us all-” Bilbo waves him off, even though the gesture is completely invisible to both of them, “but now we need to take our time, I’m afraid.”

Bilbo sinks to the ground with a discontented groan, and silence envelops them, and it is a heavy silence, every crack and odd hum seemingly a thousand times louder than it should be. Bilbo wraps his arms around his torso in a feeble attempt to keep himself warm, and he feels suddenly very, very little, the vastness of the forest swallowing him whole. He misses the snoring and shuffling of his companions sorely.

 

“Thorin,” he peeps in a weak voice.

“Here,” comes a gruff response from a direction he’d anticipated the least, and much further off than he’d fancy.

“Just... please don’t wander off,” Bilbo mutters quietly, quite certain the dwarf could barely hear him.

But something cracks under the King’s boots as he stands up.

“Where are you?” he utters.

“Right here,” Bilbo replies meekly, and to his surprise, Thorin sits down right next to him so that their shoulders are brushing.

“Don’t worry, Master hobbit, you will not be left behind, you have my word,” the dwarf states simply.

“Well, um... thank you,” Bilbo stutters in response.

Eventually, the quiet but steady breathing next to him helps lull him into an uneasy sleep, and if at some point his head rests gently in the fur of Thorin’s overcoat, he barely remembers it, and the night steals the sight away from anyone else.

-

 

Fili and Kili have a joint watch when the attackers strike. Absolutely incapable of seeing their approach in the utter darkness surrounding them, the brothers are jolted violently from a half-slumber when an orc roars not ten feet away. Scrambling to their feet and fumbling for their weapons, they find themselves fighting an enemy almost completely invisible to them - most of the time is spent dodging and keeping a safe distance from the foes, rather than engaging them. Fili tries his damnedest not to lose sense of where his brother is as the rest of the company are roused and spring to their feet, but that soon proves impossible, as he trips backwards over a stump or a log, and the only way to stay alive is to jump to his feet and run from the charging enemy.

“Kili!” he shouts, but his only response is the growl of another orc, who follows his voice and is nearer than Fili had anticipated.

“Stay together!” Thorin’s voice comes from terribly far away, the other side of their makeshift camp.

“Kili!” Fili repeats, more desperately now, as he swivels, one of his blades managing to parry the coming blow. He slashes blindly and exclaims victoriously as metal meets flesh.

“ _Kili!_ ”

Something swishes and the mass of the orc in front of him stops, then hits the ground. An arrow, Fili realizes. He snaps his head to look around - the only source of light are the dying embers of their fire from the evening, like fireflies in the distance, and providing no illumination to the chaotic scene whatsoever. A hand falls on his shoulder and he huffs in shock.

“I’m here,” Kili breathes out.

Fili grabs his brother’s forearm, half-relieved, half-angered.

“What are you doing, shooting arrows in this darkness? You could’ve hit anyone!”

“Didn’t though, did I?” Kili exclaims almost cheerfully, “come on!”

 

They make their way in the general direction of the centre of the campsite. It’s almost impossible to tell where everyone else is, because sound carries in the most peculiar ways in the forest - it seems like the fight is everywhere and nowhere at all, grunts and cries coming from this side and that, too close one second, too far away the next. The next foe, they literally run into - an orc obviously smarter than the others, sneaking around almost silently. Kili yelps when he clashes with the foe, and the orc growls, but Fili ends him, albeit with a strike that is more lucky than anything else, before the situation can get any more dangerous.

“I think everybody should be quiet and wait for-”

Kili’s musings are cut off by another shout from Thorin, this time in their native language, possibly to confuse the orcs.

“Keep quiet! Run from them, hide, and wait! Come back here when it’s safe!” their Uncle commands, his voice coming from even further off than before.

“Thorin,” Kili gasps, but Fili yanks at his arm.

“No, this way! Come!”

 

The rest of the company seem to follow suit, because the growls of the orcs become more desperate, and the cries of dwarves fewer. Side by side, Fili and Kili delve into the impossible black of Mirkwood, away from the campsite, away from Thorin... They run and run, albeit slowed down by the terrain, stumbling and groaning, grabbing at each other’s sleeves, until Kili falls over something and takes Fili with him, both toppling into mud and whatever else is covering the ground. They try to get up, but slip and otherwise get tangled in each other, and end up a miserable heap on the ground.

“I think... we should stop... for a minute now,” Kili gasps.

“Smart,” Fili exhales, “listen.”

They strain their ears to hear the slightest sound, but are still startled when a gruff: “Lads,” comes from directly behind them. It’s Dwalin, as they find out when he crouches to them, and he has Ori and Nori with him.

“Are you alright?” he inquires.

“Fine, fine,”  Fili affirms, “you?”

“Forgot Grasper at the camp,” Dwalin groans unhappily, and both Fili and Kili hiss in condolences at the loss of one of his trusty battle axes.

“We’ll return, though, right?” Ori peeps meekly.

“Aye, when it’s safe,” Dwalin huffs.

“That could take hours,” Nori points out.

“Aye.”

“I think it would be wise to stay where we are, for now,” Fili states, “at least until daylight. We can’t fight anyone right now anyway.”

“Hmm,” Dwalin agrees, “...did you catch sight of Thorin?”

“I think he went off in exactly the opposite direction than us,” Fili shrugs, “you?”

“Nah,” Dwalin grunts, and stands up, “you lads huddle together, get some sleep, I’ll take the first watch. Let’s hope we’re all reunited in the morning.”

 

...But they’re not. They wake up to what little light manages to slink through the thick foliage, bathing the forest in dim bluish glow. They march in the very vague direction of their original campsite, not daring to call out for their lost companions, hands ready at the hilts and handles of their weapons. They must’ve run further than anticipated, Fili realizes, because they walk quite long before they catch sight of the first signs of last night’s fighting. Their bedrolls and other possessions are scattered among the undergrowth in quite a wide radius. They salvage what they can, mainly food. Fortunately, there are no bodies, other than four orcs. Dwalin exclaims joyously as he pulls Grasper from under one of them, cleans it off and hoists it up into its harness.

“There’s no one here,” Ori points out the obvious quite desperately, “what do we do?”

“We wait,” Fili states firmly, “they’ll return here, just like we did.”

“But do you think the orcs won’t return?” Kili inquires.

“I don’t know,” Fili says simply.

For the first time since they’ve been roused so unpleasantly, exhaustion reminds him of its existence - he barely slept an hour or two, and his joints are suddenly aching, muscles sore, and he merely wishes for Thorin to return and relief to kick in...

They all begin to grow fidgety and nervous, when finally, some more of the company return - Balin with Bifur, Bombur and Dori stumble into the camp, dirty and utterly spent, but otherwise unharmed. Dwalin embraces his brother quickly as Ori and Nori greet theirs, but the very evident lack of Bofur upsets the other two. They help the others collect the scattered and mostly ruined food, and at last decide to start a small fire, because the morning grows increasingly damp, the air colder, nibbling at their bruised skin. Oin shows up shortly after, sporting a nasty gash on his right arm, looking truly bewildered. They help him lie down, and Fili sits down with Balin and Dwalin to discuss their next move, refusing to be dismissed.

 

“We wait for Thorin, of course,” Dwalin states.

“The orcs could still return,” Balin points out quietly.

“Then we fend them off - we have a much bigger chance of success now,” Fili retorts firmly, which earns him an appreciative nod from Dwalin.

“...I’m surprised they followed us into the forest at all,” Balin sighs deeply.

“Makes you wonder if they passed Beorn,” Dwalin utters.

“I don’t think they would be here at all if they had,” Fili smirks, which lightens the mood a little.

 

A joyous cry announces the return of another member of the company then, and Fili springs to his feet. ...It’s Gloin and Bofur, supporting each other, positively battered. There’s blood all over Bofur’s clothes and face, and he describes quite grimly how he had to dispose of his enemy almost with his bare hands.

...True tension sets within the dwarves then, because the only remaining members of the company to return are their leader and their burglar.

“Here’s to hoping they’re together then,” Bofur mumbles.

“...Maybe some of us should search for them?” Kili suggests.

They consider this.

“Four scouts in four directions,” Fili offers, “walking in a straight line so as not to lose sense of direction. Shouting their names all over the forest might not be a sensible idea, but keeping our voice low might just do the trick. Say... two hundred paces, then return?”

Balin smiles at him weakly, but with much appreciation.

“Very well. But nobody goes alone. Watch your surroundings, try to remember, so you’re able to return to us.”

“We’ll hoot, you’ll hoot back,” Kili, already on his feet, supplies, “when we’re returning.”

“Good, good.”

 

They form four pairs, Fili with Kili, Gloin with Bofur, Ori with Dori and Nori with Bifur, and the rest stay at the camp and watch them delve into the hostile greenery.

-

 

Bilbo comes to with a gasp and is momentarily confused by the entirely unfamiliar shade of light around, before he remembers where he is. He scrambles to his feet and realizes his legs are scratched and slashed quite badly from last night’s running. He stretches his back, looking for Thorin. The dwarf is pacing nearby, wary eyes scanning the scenery, merely a huff in acknowledgement of Bilbo’s presence.

“...Do you think the orcs have gone?” Bilbo inquires, watching the King turn his head this way and that, measuring.

“Hard to say,” comes a curt answer.

“...Well then, we should search for the others...?”

“Aye.”

“Alright,” Bilbo nods, and then, after some more pacing and some more silence, adds carefully, “...Thorin?”

The dwarf stops at last, his shoulders slumping, and his brows are furrowed in an exasperated frown when he turns to look at the hobbit.

“...I have no idea which direction the camp is in,” he concedes.

-

 

Mirkwood makes Fili’s skin crawl - even daylight is nothing but a faint glow here, and there’s an ever present feeling of... heaviness, as if all the branches are closing over them, threatening to suffocate them. He resists the urge to grasp at the hem of his brother’s sleeve like he used to when they were children, and presses on. One hundred and forty two, one hundred and forty three...

Kili keeps calling out Uncle’s and Bilbo’s name in regular intervals, the stifled shouts cutting through the dreary silence of the forest suddenly, unexpectedly every time. The only way for them to retain a sense of direction is to walk straight ahead and turn straight back when they’ve reached the desired number of paces...

“...Did you hear that?” Kili hisses suddenly, interrupting Fili’s train of thought.

“What?”

They both stop, Kili’s hand raised slightly. There’s a... rustle far off, like something large moving through the undergrowth...

“Come,” Fili motions his brother once he identifies where it’s coming from, and they abandon their direction and sneak forward, keeping low. They see it soon, a large shade moving between the trees ahead, and they crouch by a large uprooted tree.

“A bear?” Kili muses.

“A warg,” Fili grunts, “they’re coming back for us.”

“I should shoot him,” Kili points out intently, but Fili’s hand on his forearm stops him.

“There’s more. We need to go back, warn the others, get out of here.”

“But, Thorin...”

“ _Come_.”

 

Their progress is excruciatingly slow as they try to make as little noise as possible, and listen to any foe coming from behind. Fili hoots like an owl when he’s sure they’re close to the camp, and the hoot in response makes him sigh in relief.

“They’re coming,” he gasps when they’re among the others, “a warg, not two hundred paces away from here. We need to get out of here.”

The other scouts have returned, he notices, all of them without their King or the hobbit by their side...

“We’re not leaving Thorin,” Dwalin states.

“Brother...-”

“Everybody, gather up, come on, we need to move!” Fili says firmly, but he’s no Thorin, and the eyes of the company dart between him and Balin, up until a warg howl is heard and everybody jumps.

“Come on!” Fili and Kili exclaim in unison, and the company are finally jolted into action, gathering what they can, helping each other up.

“They won’t go too deep into the forest, we might yet have a chance,” Balin huffs hastily.

“And _Thorin?_ ” Dwalin growls intently.

“We’ll return for him,” Balin says simply, but emptily, his voice giving away his awareness of the hopelessness of the whole situation far too clearly.

-

 

Bilbo can hardly keep up. Thorin marches almost furiously in a direction that was chosen haphazardly at best, and the hobbit’s feet stumble over obstacles the dwarf’s heavy boots seem to omit altogether. When it comes to finding his way, he is none the wiser - he has no idea how far they ran last night, and everything around him seems the same to his eyes, an endless vastness of black trunks and damp, slightly slimy moss and old foliage blanketing the ground. To top it off, his stomach rumbles frequently to remind him that he hasn’t eaten anything since ‘dinner’ the night before - which, as far as he remembers, consisted of naught but a handful of dried berries and a few bites of honey cake.

His misery isn’t lifted whatsoever when they do, in fact, find the camp. It is completely ruined, ransacked and otherwise quite evidently run over by a pack of orcs. Thorin swivels in the middle of the mess, his eyes scanning the surroundings, and Bilbo tries his best to ignore the despair in them. Instead, he searches the undergrowth for his backpack, and something occurs to him.

“They were here,” he speaks up, and Thorin pays him more attention.

“How do you know?”

“Well, the satchels and blankets are gone, as well as most of the food,” he notes, with a sigh of dismay at the last bit of information, “I don’t see how orcs would be interested in any of that. ...They can’t be far,” he adds, forcing at least a sliver of hope into his voice.

 

Thorin grunts, inspecting something with the tip of his boot.

“I can’t see why they didn’t wait and-”

He’s cut off by what could only be a warg howl, and Bilbo yelps.

“Well, that’s probably why,” he peeps, and Thorin extends his arm to him.

“Come on,” he commands brashly, and Bilbo grabs the nearest satchel without a second thought, and then they’re on the run again.

...And somehow, speeding through the forest seemed easier at night. Now that he can see every single stump and protruding branch, Bilbo can’t charge quite as valiantly. The only thing that keeps him on his feet and upright is the sight of Thorin - it would be foolish and certainly quite terrifying to lose him now.

There is no telling how close their foes are - once again, the sounds carry throughout the forest, seemingly from every direction at once. Somewhere in between focusing on not losing his breath from the unusual workout, and ignoring the sharp pain of something jamming into his sole, Bilbo notices the terrain is changing. There are fewer trees and more rocks, some of them quite a bit larger than he is, and the air smells... if not fresher, than certainly damper.

“A river,” Thorin affirms the hobbit’s suspicion, “with a bit of luck, the wargs will refuse to cross it. Come on!”

 

And indeed, there it is, when they come to an abrupt halt on the edge of a ravine - it speeds below through a valley filled with an uncharacteristic amount of light. The trees grow much taller here, trunks thicker, but also further apart from one another, allowing some shine to find its way through the foliage. Bilbo searches for a safe way down the steep and rocky slope, but Thorin simply jumps and slides down, heavy boots first, not sparing a second’s thought for the hobbit.

Bilbo’s stomach flips in panic, because surely the King is going to run off and leave him there to be caught and ripped to shreds...

“Come on!” comes a highly impatient order, and Thorin waits, weighing his sword, hand outstretched to Bilbo...

He swallows and braves the slope, tufts of grass and muddy rocks giving way under his feet. Just then, another warg howl echoes from behind, and Bilbo hurries and steps on a particularly sharp branch or rock, jabbing into the unseen wound in his sole, and he loses balance and plummets forward with an undignified high-pitched gasp, completely incapable of stopping or putting his feet right. His air is knocked out of his lungs with the fear of falling, and he shuts his eyes, but instead of the ground, he lands face first in something warm and rather soft, two strong arms wrapping around him and steadying him.

 

Thorin holds him at arm’s length, and it’s about the hundredth time he’s saved his life in the past hours, Bilbo thinks, cheeks flushed.

“T-thank you,” he stutters.

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’m... what? Am I...?”

Thorin points, and Bilbo whines and cringes at the sight - in addition to the grime and dirt, there is fresh blood in between the toes on his right foot.. He balances and lifts it to inspect the damage. The gash is short, but certainly deep, considering it penetrated the thick sole he as a hobbit has always prided himself on.

“Can you go on?” Thorin demands, scanning the surroundings.

“I’ve managed this far,” Bilbo nods.

“Let’s go.”

 

The river looks much more dangerous from up close - the stream speeds over large rocks, spirals and splashes, and overall, it seems to be just rapids, nothing else.

“It looks rather shallow,” Thorin states and comes to the very edge to search for the best way across...

“Stop!” Bilbo yelps, “wait!”

“What is it?” Thorin demands, irritated.

“Remember that stream Beorn mentioned? The one we shouldn’t enter under any circumstances?”

Thorin’s shoulders slump and he takes a few steps back from the water, inspecting it thoroughly.

“There’s no way to tell,” he groans, “and there’s certainly no way to cross it without getting wet.”

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo sighs, takes a deep breath and dunks his wounded foot into the water.

“ _Bilbo!_ ”

He staggers a little bit, courtesy of the unexpected strength of the stream, and there’s a sharp sting where the cut is submerged, but other than that, nothing.

“What in Durin’s name are you _doing?_ ”

Thorin’s face is a grimace of far more earnest shock and worry than he’d expected. Bilbo grins uneasily.

“It needed washing anyway,” he blubbers.

“You could have- we have no idea what the stream _does!_ Anything could have happened to you, you reckless thing!”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo sighs, “better me than you.”

The dwarf’s nostrils flare and for a fleeting moment, it looks like he’s going to start shouting, a strange bewilderment in his face, but then he deflates.

“Let’s move.”

 

They enter the river and soon find it deeper than they’d expected - Thorin is submerged to his knees, Bilbo obviously much higher. He physically pushes his way through the mass of water threatening to sweep him away and pull him under. The ache of the wound transforms into something ever present and dull, and every now and then, he steps on something particularly nasty and a sharp pang of pain shoots up his whole leg. The stream also proves to be a lot wider than it looked from the shore, and Bilbo is just about to complain, when a terrifying set of growls and shouts echoes from behind them, very, very close.

He turns to look and almost drowns when he slips and loses all balance, falling to his knees, bumping them painfully on the rocky bottom of the river. He splashes about and is soon soaking wet, but unable to stand back up again until Thorin grabs his shoulder painfully and pulls him to his feet. Only then can Bilbo really take in the sight on the far bank, and his feet almost give way again - there’s a pack of orcs and wargs at the top of the ravine they’d dealt with earlier.

“Quickly!” Thorin commands and, grasping the poor hobbit’s elbow, makes way across the rest of the river. A bone chilling howl comes from behind them.

“T-they’ve seen us!”

“Of course they’ve seen us, now come on!”

 

Finally they have solid ground under their feet again, but Bilbo isn’t given but one second to catch his breath, because Thorin unsheathes his sword and shoves the hobbit behind him, assuming a protective stance. The enemies make their way down the slope frighteningly quickly, and they’re at full speed and Bilbo’s heart is hammering in his throat.

“You said they wouldn’t cross the river,” he squeaks.

“I said ‘with a bit of luck’,” Thorin retorts harshly.

But indeed, they seem to stop at the bank, the wargs pacing angrily and the orcs growling and baring their teeth, but otherwise not making any further move.

“...What’s stopping them?” Bilbo inquires breathlessly, “surely not the water...?”

“Azog isn’t with them,” the King mutters, the name of his adversary a hateful snarl, “they don’t want to go any deeper into the forest.”

“But they recognize you, don’t they? Thorin? They must know what Azog wants...”

“...Let’s not push our luck, shall we,” the dwarf groans, motions for Bilbo, and they start a slow retreat, eyes glued to their foes.

The pack simply watch them and everything is sinisterly quiet, Bilbo realizes - the wargs simply sniff about on the riverbank, and then one of the orcs gestures with his arm, fist balled, and they disappear as quickly as they came, running beside the river deeper into the valley. Thorin stops, brows furrowed.

 

“Well, that was... strange...” Bilbo remarks.

“They might know of a bridge,” the King points out, “or they think they have better hopes of catching the larger group.”

“...Oh,” Bilbo mumbles.

He suddenly feels very cold, his breeches and even his coat soaked, and he shudders, wrapping his arms around himself. Thorin isn’t a much better sight, bewildered and dirty, his eyes glinting fervently, but with unmistakable desperation, as he scans the forest. At last, he seems to settle on a direction and Bilbo tries to look encouraging when the King regards him, but feels he’s failing miserably.

“We’ll reunite soon enough,” the burglar offers, and the King nods, jaw set tight, but says nothing.

-

 

They’re being hunted. Again. It doesn’t occur to Fili for some time, all hope of keeping a vague idea about the position of their enemies lost in the struggle to keep the whole company moving, but then they stop momentarily when poor injured Oin trips and falls, and silence befalls them, and they listen.

“They’re spreading out, trying to close in on us from the sides,” Dwalin hisses, encompassing with his hands the darkness enveloping them, “we need to outrun them, and hope they don’t dare follow us too far.”

Fili nods curtly and motions the dwarves to start moving again. ...They have absolutely zero hope of outrunning wargs, especially in this terrain, and they all know it. Their only hope is the pack deciding to retreat, which is a rather foolish predicament on its own. The whole of the forest seems to be against them, ground covered with inconvenient rocks and stumps, the greenery thick, often with sharp thorns. It might just be his eyes cheating him, but it seems to Fili that what little daylight there was is fading the deeper they delve into Mirkwood. His own body is aching for a rest, limbs sore and head dazed, his surroundings flickering out of focus every now and then. Yet, he keeps at the head of the company, _leading them_ , and he swallows his doubts and worry for his uncle and Bilbo with every angry step.

His brother marches next to him, and ultimately it is for him that Fili grits his teeth and presses on. Kili might be skilled and brave, but the worry and unease in his eyes are more than apparent.

“We’re going the wrong direction,” Kili moans.

“We’re going in no direction, I’m afraid,” Fili retorts.

“No, I mean... Away from Thorin...”

Fili falters for a second, but in the end only allows himself a ragged sigh.

“...I know.”

“Fili, we have to return for him!”

“...And how exactly do you propose we do that?”

“I don’t know, but we’re running away from him, and he’s alone! We can still turn back and fight!”

“Kili, calm down.”

His brother is getting nervous, fidgety, tripping as he tries to keep up with Fili, and Fili’s heart breaks, but he also knows at least one of them has to keep his head clear.

“Thorin can take care of himself,” he speaks gently, “and he has Master Bilbo with him. They’ll be _fine_.”

He keeps looking back to check on the rest of the company following them, which seems to unnerve Kili even more.

“Fili, this wretched forest is _enormous_! How are we supposed to reunite with them? And that’s given we manage to get away from the orcs! We might never see Thorin again! What if we never see him again?!”

“ _Kili!_ ” Fili exclaims loudly, angrily, and groans when Kili almost physically recoils, “there is nothing we can do for Thorin now. I’m sorry to say this, you know I am, and I’m scared, too,” he adds quietly, for his brother’s ears only.

“We need to keep the company together, you and I,” Fili speaks intently, “that’s what Thorin wanted. That’s what he told us, _stay together_. So that’s what we’re going to do, and when we’re safe, we’ll figure out a way to get back to him, alright?”

 

Kili doesn’t respond and doesn’t look at him, his jaw clenched, but he nods curtly. Marginally relieved, Fili reaches to squeeze his brother’s forearm shortly, reassuringly. He turns to look over his shoulder again - the company are slowing down, unable to keep the tempo, and he is about to shout reassurances at them, when another warg howl is heard, this time much, much closer than anticipated. That and Balin’s and Fili’s unanimous ‘Run!’ is enough to speed them up again.

The terrain gets truly horrible then, large uprooted trees and dead branches blocking their path, and he’s certain now that they must be going downhill and deeper in, because there is definitely less light...

“Can you hear that?” somebody shouts, “a river!”

Fili strains his ears, and it’s there, distant but clear, water rushing over rocks. Blindly, they make their way there, somehow hopeful. Fili can hear them now, warg paws and orc boots crushing the undergrowth, and with every step, he weighs their options. Maybe they should stop, maybe they should fight after all...

“Fili!”

His brother gasps as he trips and crumples to the ground, so quickly that Fili runs a bit further ahead before he registers it. He jumps back to Kili, offering his hand, but it’s as if he doesn’t see it.

“Look,” he breathes out, almost reverently, pointing somewhere into the darkness.

“Kili, get up!” Fili pleads, the others reaching them and slowing down uncertainly, “we need to keep going!”

Kili scrambles to his feet, but his eyes are still glued to...

“No, look!”

 

He sees it then. It’s a stag, white as snow, like a spark of light in the black, and it just stands there, watching. For a heartbeat, they stare at each other, and then an orc roars and the animal stretches its long legs, springs and bolts away. Fili is momentarily ensnared by the sight, but then Dwalin grabs his arm, ushering him on.

“Let’s move!”

This time, him with Kili and Dwalin wait for everybody to pass them and stay at the tail of the company. Fili’s heart hammers against his ribcage - there are shadows, nimble and large and sinister, in the trees to both their sides. They’re being chased, herded, and it is only a matter of time before their foes get bored with the game and emerge to do some real damage. He almost loses his resolve then, the sight of his friends and family before him, desperate and far too slow. He concentrates on his breathing and on his feet carrying him and he would close his eyes if he could, make himself remember better times. He exchanges a quick glance with Dwalin, who shakes his head almost imperceptibly. They’re going to have to fight.

“Halt!” Fili orders, “ready yourselves!”

They form a tight circle, and for a few seconds, all that can be heard is their ragged breathing, Fili’s own heartbeat in his ears almost deafening, the warmth of Kili’s shoulder brushing on his the only thing he’s capable of registering... They jerk and gasp as one as their enemies finally show themselves, the wargs jumping out of the shadows, growling ferociously, the orcs weighing their weapons. They’re an almost unreal sight in this forest, Fili thinks to himself, the dim light making their skin look many tones darker and their eyes narrower and much more menacing.

His last thought is spared for Thorin, sending a wordless prayer to Mahal for his safety, and he lowers his stance, his grip on his blades tightening, ready for battle.

-

 

Bilbo is miserable. Of course, this seems to be the prevalent situation these days, but he’s managed to retain a somewhat positive outlook on things up until the surprise attack last night, he thinks. Despite the lack of food and warmth and, among many other things, handkerchiefs, he was hopeful, content even, when they departed from Beorn. Even after Gandalf announced he would leave them, Bilbo prevailed, oh yes, he did. Even with the thick, pitch black and the strange sounds of Mirkwood at night, and the grumbles and grumpiness of his companions, he still forced himself to go on.

All that is lost now, of course. He is wet, wounded, tired and hungry. He wishes for nothing but a quiet sit down and maybe a smoke. He inspects the contents of the backpack he grabbed at the campsite - there’s a blanket, an assortment of tools such as lockpicks and screwdrivers, and, fortunately, three nice, beautiful, round cakes. He glares at the back of Thorin, who marches steadily forward, then speeds up and catches up with him.

“We should eat,” he states, offering him the cake, but the King shakes his head.

“We should save this for when we’re properly hungry.”

 _But I am properly hungry_ , Bilbo thinks, but restrains himself from saying anything out loud, seeing as Thorin is already on edge. They’d refilled their flasks with water at the river only after Bilbo suggested it, and he had to force Thorin to debate their next steps with him. It was more than obvious then, and it is even more so now, that they have no idea where to go. Returning to the campsite was out of the question, since that side of the river was most probably swarming

with orcs. And so they decided to march on into the absolutely unknown, in the vague hope of reuniting with the rest of the company, somewhere, some time. They don’t even know if the others are together, Bilbo thinks, but says nothing, because Thorin knows, and the tension in his features betrays it.

He fiddles with the ring in his pocket and resists the urge to slip it on and just disappear, maybe sit for a few hours, completely alone... Eventually, the prospect of sticking with Thorin is always the more agreeable one. Their trek grows from worrisome and tedious to downright boring. Bilbo glares at the treetops, trying to discern where the light is coming through, and that’s when it occurs to him.

 

He stops abruptly and Thorin doesn’t notice at first, then turns around, irritated.

“What’s wrong?” he groans.

“What? No, no, nothing!” Bilbo assures him, newly excited with his idea.

He sets his backpack on the ground and goes about inspecting the trees.

“Bilbo...” Thorin growls threateningly.

“Oh, no, no, don’t worry! I was simply thinking I could climb one of the trees to see where we are! You know, if... if we’re any closer to the end of this wretched forest.”

Thorin glares at him wordlessly for a moment, then sighs deeply.

“...Very well. Go on, then.”

“Right,” Bilbo nods brightly, stretching his arms.

“...Right,” he repeats, a bit weakly now, as he looks up to scale the height of the tree he’s chosen.

He looks back at Thorin, who simply gazes back.

“Catch me if I fall?” Bilbo suggests meekly.

Thorin grumbles something under his breath, and steps closer.

“Don’t fall,” he replies simply.

 

Hoisting himself up proves to be the easiest task - he’s climbed his share of trees as a wee child. Finding his way up is fine, too, apart from the wound in his foot acting up every now and then, but then Bilbo dares look down, and his whole world spins and sways. Thorin is very, very tiny, deep down below, the pale circle of his face looking up nothing but a dot. Bilbo swallows nervously and resumes climbing, trying not to concentrate on his palms sweating. The branches closer to the top are thinner, but obviously growing closer together, and they slash at his face mercilessly. He gathers all his strength and finally hoists himself up above, and almost falls right back down, all air knocked out of his lungs.

The light is white and blinding, and the breeze smells fresh and beautiful, soothing his burning cheeks. Tears well in his eyes as he tries to focus. All around him is a sea of leaves, and strangely, they are deep red and maroon in the sunlight, and oh, he sees butterflies, larger than any he’s ever seen, black and blue and violet. He inhales deeply, and feels laughter bubbling in his throat. He forgets why he’s there for a few blissful moments, and breathes in and out deeply, passionately, runs his fingers over the leaves, trying to catch some of the butterflies and giggling as they flutter away. It feels like ages since he’s felt this, this... free. Strangely, he is reminded of his childhood - his twelve year old self would be overjoyed, as much as he is right now, by this sight.

Carefully, he repositions his feet on the branches so that he can turn around to see more of the forest, and unfortunately, that’s all there is. More of the same. He sees no end to the greenery, and there are absolutely no signs of the terrain changing anywhere. He hears Thorin calling then, faintly, and his gut crawls at the idea of sinking into the black below.

 

...He does so nevertheless, immediately getting goosebumps, as the air below the treetops is considerably colder. His good mood dissipates slowly but surely as he makes his way down the tree, and by the time he reaches solid ground, letting Thorin help him down from the lowest branch, he’s frowning again.

“...Nothing?” Thorin offers.

Bilbo wraps his coat tighter around his shoulders, and realizes it’s still damp. He has neither the power nor the desire to try and make Thorin feel better now, so he shakes his head heavily.

“Nothing at all.”

-

 

He’s still not entirely sure what happened. At one point, they were being circled by growling wargs and orcs, then the other... he remembers the horn calling, echoing off the trees and startling the enemy. There was swishing of arrows and angry shouts, and Fili was reminded of when they were running from orcs for the first time...

“Elves!” somebody cries, and indeed, there they are.

He can’t actually see them, they’re so fast, just dashes of bright hair and flashes of weapons, and before the company can gather themselves, their foes are the ones being chased away from them.

“Don’t run after them! Stay!” he shouts after the few who mean to break apart, and watches in shock as both orcs and wargs flee as if charmed by some spell, entirely oblivious to the dwarves.

Soon, they are alone in the suffocating silence of Mirkwood again, and the sounds of a distant struggle fade and die out completely. Fili seeks Kili’s face, and surely enough, his brother is grinning.

“We did it!”

He cheers, along with some others, and Fili allows himself a smile, and pats Kili on the shoulder.

“We didn’t do anything, I’m afraid,” Balin interjects.

“We were damn lucky,” Dwalin adds, “the elves could still return for us.”

Silence follows.

“...What do we do?” Ori inquires.

“We could follow them,” Fili offers, “they are sure to lead us to a road, at least.”

“We will never catch up with them!”

“Well, not if we stand around, we won’t!”

Fili regards the rest of the company. It is a selection of more or less desperate and anguished grimaces, and he inhales deeply.

“The way I see it,” he says, forcing at least a semblance of vigor into his voice, “our only chance is to get out of this damned forest, and hope Thorin and Bilbo manage to do the same. We are low on food, and we have no idea where we are. Moreover, we have no time to search for them. I’m afraid we could get lost in this place forever.”

Dwalin is frowning menacingly, and Fili seeks solace with Balin, who sighs deeply, and shrugs.

“I don’t like the idea of leaving Thorin behind any more than you do,” Fili continues, “and we’re not... we’re not leaving him behind, we’re continuing on, because imagine his wrath if we foolishly wandered around this forest for days! Better we do our very best to move forward, and keep him in our prayers.”

 

Fili feels his words are failing him, and he doesn’t feel a sliver of power at that moment. The company look even more pained after his little speech. Balin hangs his head, and wordlessly, Fili pleads with him for help.

“...You’re right, lad,” he says at last, if a bit begrudgingly, “we can’t just stand around.”

They begin moving again, slowly now, with Fili leading them, Balin by his side.

“...We need Thorin,” Fili mutters to his childhood mentor, and to his surprise, Balin grants him a smile.

“No, laddie. We need someone to take the lead.”

Fili frowns.

“...Well then, maybe I need that someone to be Thorin.”

Balin’s smile widens and he pats him on his arm, responding in his best vague way, the likes of which Fili used to despise as a child: “Maybe you need to convince yourself you don’t.”

-

 

They’re lost. They’re lost, and there is little to no hope, and Bilbo is quicker to realize and admit that than Thorin. The dwarf presses on, marches steadily and angrily, only ever slowing down if he hears the hobbit behind gasp and stumble. Bilbo is in pain, he’s cold and, most importantly, he’s famished, and that’s why his voice comes out rather more harsh than he’d expected when he speaks for the first time in what is probably hours: “Thorin, stop, please. Enough.”

Thorin does so immediately, freezes and snaps his head around, fuming in a rage that threatens to scorch poor Bilbo where he stands. But he seems to relax when he takes in the burglar’s miserable appearance - he lets out a ragged sigh and looks around. Darkness is already prolonging the shadows around them, and very soon, they would have to venture on completely blind.

“I know that the thought of the company out there somewhere makes rest almost impossible for you,” Bilbo speaks weakly, and the King glares at him, “but you will do them no good if you tire yourself out completely. We don’t know our way around these parts, we haven’t even come across a decent road, and we might be walking in circles for all we know...-”

“That’s enough,” Thorin interrupts him gruffly, “you are right, of course. We’ll rest.”

 

Wordlessly, they prepare their bedrolls - just in time, as it turns out. Night comes lightning-quick, accompanied by an increasing chill. At least there’s no need to worry about dinner, Bilbo thinks to himself bitterly as he attempts to settle into his blanket as comfortably as possible. But comfort will not be granted this time, it seems, as the cold builds up - no matter how hard he tries, Bilbo cannot keep himself warm enough to doze off, and keeps rolling over and readjusting.

“Halfling, you’re shivering,” comes a grunt from close behind him.

“Sorry,” Bilbo sighs, “sorry, I’ll try to be quieter.”

“...Just come lay beside me,” Thorin mutters, and heat comes quick now as Bilbo’s ears and cheeks flush.

“Oh... no, that’s not necessary, I assure you, I’ll just...”

Thorin barks a short laugh, and it is an entirely unexpected sound in the general gloom surrounding them.

“If you don’t wish to die of cold tonight, I suggest you reconsider your prudence,” he says, the mocking tone more than apparent.

 

Bilbo grumbles something below his breath, but then another full-body shiver seizes him, and he gives up. Gathering up his bedroll, guided by Thorin’s soft: “Here.”, he scoots closer. One large, heavy arm rests over his waist and up his chest and, their blankets combined, the warmth comes soon. After some consideration, and because it proves to be the most comfortable position, Bilbo gently wraps his fingers around Thorin’s wrist. The dwarf’s body pressing at his back emits much more heat than he’d expect, and accompanied by the steady rhythm of breaths puffed into his hair, Bilbo starts dozing off quickly.

“We’ll find them,” he mutters seconds before sleep takes him, “I’ll climb trees until we do, I...”

Thorin makes a strained sound, like a whine, but then sighs deeply, blowing Bilbo’s hair into his face, and his grip tightens, cradling the hobbit closer.

“You’ve done much already,” he mumbles, the movement of his mouth against the top of Bilbo’s head sending a different kind of shivers up the hobbit’s spine, “now rest.”

 

And rest he does, never stirring in the hostile silence of the forest, and when he wakes, he finds they’ve shifted positions some time in the night, so that Thorin lies on his back and Bilbo clings to his side, settled in the nook of the dwarf’s shoulder.

With some nervosity, he admits to himself it was the most comfortable slumber he’s experienced in some time.

 

...Comfort is forgotten swiftly though, as they gather their possessions and venture on - breakfast is had on the road, consisting of quarter a honey pie each, and Bilbo’s stomach grumbles even more desperately afterwards, he thinks.

Thorin does seem in better spirits somewhat, and slows down to have Bilbo marching at his side. Their trek is wordless, tedious, and utterly without aim. Bilbo dares not bring up the subject of the rest of the company. The general idea is they will try to make their way out of the forest and pray for the others to achieve the same, rather than waste time and resources searching for them. ...They do, after all, only have two and a half honey pies left.

The idea - honey pies or not - fills Bilbo with a strange sort of dread. The whole adventure, the whole... quest, seems almost impossible now, larger than life and ridiculous. Without the company and with just the King under the Mountain without the Mountain at his side, Bilbo feels feeble. He would seek reassurances with Thorin, but it doesn’t seem a wise choice, as the dwarf doesn’t have a particularly hopeful air about him either. And so they venture for hours without uttering a single word, and Bilbo feels an ineffable urge to sing, hum, or at least whistle, but doesn’t dare start.

 

When they settle in for another night - darkness comes suddenly and they are both very confused at first, because according to their track of time, it couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours since they set out - Thorin chooses to start a small fire, despite the fact that it’s proven an unpleasant undertaking in the past. Bilbo sits close by it and tries his best to ignore the peculiar insects attracted by the light. Instead he checks the wound on his foot, cleaning it as best he can, while Thorin tends to his weapons.   

Soon, quite inadvertently, Bilbo’s eyes wander and settle on Orcrist in Thorin’s lap, the precise drawn movements of the cloth along the length of the blade somewhat mesmerizing. Bilbo hugs his knees and just watches, and finds himself capable of feeling almost peaceful. Thorin notices his attention, and looks up, but says nothing. It occurs to Bilbo that he should probably try to fall asleep before the fire, already fading, goes out completely, and so he wraps himself in his blanket and lies facing it. The warmth lulls him to sleep quite quickly, and the larger body lying down next to him, one arm adjusting his blanket and enveloping him gently, might as well have been a dream.

 

The next day, they begin to notice a change in terrain - there are more rocks, the trees grow further apart, and the air smells a bit fresher. Every now and then, they even come by a small clearing, the streams of light like bright golden ribbons cutting the darkness. Full of hope, they speed up, and after they’ve had lunch - again, quarter a pie each, plus some dried berries Bilbo found at the very bottom of his backpack - they even start noticing birds, a solitary chirp here and there. Black is slowly but surely replaced by more and more green.

Bilbo climbs another tree, and almost falls to his death when he descends, shouting halfway down, eager to let Thorin know the news: “It’s there! The end, I mean! That way! It’s pretty far off, but I swear I saw it!”

His cheering is cut off by a terrified shriek as a branch gives way under his foot and he loses balance and falls.

“Bilbo!”

Everything is too fast, branches snapping and wind swishing in his ears, and then he collides with Thorin and they topple to the ground in a heap. Sharp pain blossoms in Bilbo’s chest - he swears he could hear something crack. He comes to and realizes he is quite simply laying in Thorin’s arms. He rolls off him, cheeks flushing, and sits up, his head spinning.

“I’m sorry, sorry, I-”

To his surprise, Thorin laughs and sits up as well.

“You are too eager for your own good, Master hobbit.”

“I do believe you’re right,” Bilbo nods, testing his side, “...I think I’ve cracked a rib, at the very least.”

“Well, likewise!” Thorin retorts, and Bilbo is about to start apologizing again, but he notices the King actually looks almost amused.

He stands up and offers Bilbo his hand, which he takes gratefully.

“Now, which way did you say the end is? We should make haste. That is, of course, assuming you’re capable.”

Bilbo scoffs at him, waving him off.

“That’s touching! Let’s go.”

 

Their mood rises tenfold, even though Bilbo probably does have a bruised rib - he pays no mind to it, and instead revels in the reignited fire in Thorin’s eyes. The forest looks almost normal now - well, like a very thick, very dark forest, but certainly not like the place of nightmares one is afraid to go to sleep in. That night - because they are headed for the end of Mirkwood, but that apparently doesn’t mean it will be reached that soon - they make a good, solid fire, and Bilbo feels really genuinely happy as he lays on his back and sees stars like tiny beads through the treetops. He can only hope the rest of their company have a similar view. He looks to Thorin to share some encouraging thought or other, and catches the King gazing at him.

Not particularly worried about, well, anything, Bilbo smiles back.

“...Everything alright?”

“I don’t know,” Thorin replies, uncharacteristically quietly, “are you?”

“Huh? Oh, the... yes! Yes, of course, it’s nothing!”

Thorin grunts approvingly.

“Well, good. Get some sleep.”

He lays down as well, on the other side of the fire, and Bilbo very pointedly doesn’t feel disappointed. Still, there’s something... He waits for a bit, listening to the sounds of the night, much more comforting now, and then he braves the unknown.

“Excuse me, but... is something troubling you?”

A short huff of sardonic laughter comes from the King.

“You mean besides losing my nephews and comrades and possibly leaving them behind at the mercy of either orcs or wood elves?”

Bilbo gulps, shutting his eyes in mute anger at himself.

“Well... yes, I suppose, besides that.”

 

Nothing but silence responds to him for the longest time, and he begins to think perhaps Thorin has dismissed his worry and gone to sleep.

“...I’m very grateful I’m not alone,” he hears then, quiet and unreal, and his eyes flutter open, seeking the King, but he can no longer see him very well in the darkness.

“Oh, well, I...” Bilbo sutters, utterly unsure as of how to respond to that, “...we do have a contract after all.”

He is granted another quiet burst of laughter, and then silence, definitively, and his thoughts swirl and swarm after that, preventing him from falling asleep for quite some time.

-

 

Fili first notices them from far off, dashing from tree to tree without a sound, slender figures somehow lighter than their surroundings. Soon, the whole company are alerted of their presence, and it becomes obvious that they are being watched, observed. It is somewhat reassuring, in fact. The elves seem to have no interest in actually engaging them, and when they settle in for the first night without Thorin and Bilbo, they can even hear their voices like leaves murmuring in a gentle breeze.

“This might be a good thing,” Balin offers when they gather to discuss their strategy.

“Yes, or they might be like fireflies, leading weary travellers into the swamps and certain death,” Dwalin retorts grumpily, “big, pointy-eared fireflies.”

“A little more optimism, please, brother,” Balin groans.

“Well, I’m sure they’re leading us somewhere,” Fili points out, “they might be subtle about it, but they’re herding us, slowly but surely.”

Both sons of Fundin frown deeply at that, and Fili rubs his hands over his face.

“Let’s all get some sleep. We’ll be wiser in the morning.”

 

Wordlessly, he seeks Kili in the quickly spreading darkness and lays down, and when he is offered his brother’s arm, he settles his head in the nook of his shoulder with endless gratitude and lets exhaustion overpower him at last.

 

In the morning, they survey their collective possessions for the first time since they’ve been attacked. There is not a whole lot of food, and many of them have lost their precious tools, books, instruments, and in case of a highly disturbed Ori, a sketchbook. They eat very little and set out in a very vague direction, actually waiting for the first glimpse of the elves. They are followed throughout the day, but the situation proves more infuriating by the minute, as the elves seem to vanish into thin air every time they attempt to make direct contact with them. Finally, enraged, Kili shoots an arrow blindly into the shadows, and they disappear for good, the silence that follows weighing on them harder than ever before.

They lose all resolve and stop early that day, sitting closely together, eating their respective shares of dinner in silence. Bofur makes an attempt to lift the mood and pulls out his flute, but the melody sounds solemn and hollow and it’s as if the forest itself refuses to let it be heard. There is no discussion of either their plans or their King, as they rightly feel it would dampen their spirits even further. Queer tension hangs over the group as they prepare their bedrolls, and some of them spot a different sort of figures in the shadows - bigger and more menacing - but in the end they dismiss it and welcome slumber one by one.

 

Fili is incapable of falling asleep, and he’s soothing Kili’s arm absently, his brother cradled close to him and snoring gently, when he sees it.

First, he thinks it’s a pair of fireflies, but then the green is too ethereal and the dots too large, and he realizes he’s staring right into a pair of eyes. Before he can discern what body they belong to, they disappear. He is about to cuddle in with Kili, when another pair pops up. And another. Soon, they are encircled by blinking eyes like lamps, and Fili’s heart flutters frantically as he shakes his brother awake.

“Kili...”

“Wha... What? What is it?”

“Shh... Look.”

Kili gasps, and wordlessly, and very, very slowly, they get up, back to back, hands ready on the hilts of their swords.

“We need to wake everybody up,” Kili hisses, “quickly.”

“I know,” Fili mumbles, “...on three?”

He feels rather than sees his brother nod, and he takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for one second.

“One, two, three... _Wake up! Up, on your feet!_ ” he and Kili scream in unison, and the company jerk awake, but the shadows move at the same time.

 

Fili is frozen for a blink of an eye, because one huge bulk of legs and body mass comes hurling at him, and it looks like the night itself is going to swallow him whole. He exclaims and slashes blindly.

“Spiders!” someone shouts.

And indeed they are - almost taller than the dwarves, fat and hairy, and _quick_. All over their campsite dwarves huff and grunt as they are being knocked off their feet by the sheer force of the beasts charging.

“Don’t let them get you under their legs!” Fili shouts, he himself struggling to keep balance as he jumps to avoid attacks, tries not to trip in the pitch black, and does his damnedest to deal some damage at the same time.

“Get back on your feet!”

But it’s useless - the spiders are at home here, and soon, a blood-curdling shriek comes from Ori. Fili charges in the vague direction, and sees the youngest dwarf being wrapped up in a cobweb. He roars and slashes at the spider, but is tackled by another one from the side, toppling to the ground, losing grip of one of his blades as his arm twists painfully under his torso.

The beast is on him, its mandibles clicking menacingly and too close for comfort. Fili groans as he tries to scramble away. He fails to even hit the spider - it is a mess of disgusting sounds and long furry legs and when he feels his feet being lifted, Fili panics. He writhes on the ground almost frantically, trying to see where the others are, but the spider drags and pulls and he loses his seconds sword as well, and then he is being wrapped up in a cobweb. He cries his brother’s name then, tries attacking the beast with his bare hands, to no avail. Soon, strong legs get the better of him and turn him over at a ridiculous pace, the cobweb literally sticking his arms to his body, and then his face is covered as well and he screams and spits and bites as the spider drags him Mahal knows where, until a sharp pang of pain shoots through his whole body as he hits his head on something hard, and goes out like a light.

-

 

They practically speed through the forest again the next day, both fueled by hope, joy even, and eager to get out. The trees stand further apart and birds are a common sight now, as are squirrels and even a deer or two, Bilbo thinks. They even happen upon a very decent looking road, wide and safe, and there, ahead of them, at the horizon... a light, at last. They hurry to it and soon, the path under their feet changes even further, there are old, cracked cobblestones paving it, and Bilbo thinks he’s never been more relieved. They stop to catch their breath not a hundred yards away from the end of the forest, and it is a glorious sight, the treetops parting and golden glow framing them like an ornate gate.

“Are we sure we haven’t died along the way and aren’t at the Halls of Mandos right now?” Bilbo notes, still breathless.

Thorin chuckles, his hand resting on Bilbo’s shoulder, squeezing shortly.

“I don’t think I’m ready for that quite yet,” he replies lightly, “I _am_ ready to get out of this wretched place, though. Come on.”

 

They walk out of the forest and sunlight blinds them for a good long moment, and Bilbo thinks there should have been more to it - it almost seems too easy, Mirkwood simply letting them out like that. He puts his hand over his eyes to shade them from the sun, and looks around. Ahead of them stretches a meadow, beautiful, long grass, and the path continues along it to a small bridge crossing a brisk river. To the right, quite far off, stands a small sort of hut and what looks like a large pile of logs beside it. But Bilbo’s eyes follow the road - behind the bridge, it curves and leads up a steep hill, and he thinks he can see smoke rising... He narrows his eyes to see better, and staring directly into the sunlight makes it almost impossible, but at last he discerns what seems to be a man coming down from the hill.

“Thorin, look! There’s someone there!”

“Bilbo.”

The King’s voice is so tense Bilbo notices right away and turns to look at him. His heart skips a beat - an all too familiar pack is emerging from the forest. Thorin unsheathes Orcrist without much ado, and Bilbo scrambles for Sting.

“H-how did they get here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Thorin...”

“I’m sorry, Bilbo.”

 

Bilbo opens his mouth to say more, but before he can discern what exactly Thorin is supposed to be sorry for, the dwarf, to his utter horror, charges at the enemy with a ferocious battle cry. The poor hobbit is utterly frozen in place for the longest time, shocked, but then the first thing he feels is, strangely enough, anger. _Oh, by all that’s good and right,_ is the only thing he thinks as his feet somehow carry him at incredible speed towards yet another great danger, _I did not save you from orcs once for you to let yourself be ripped apart by them the next time, Thorin Oakenshield!_

 

But everything is a blur and Bilbo might be part Took, but he certainly isn’t a skilled fighter. He watches Thorin literally slash one orc off the back of a warg, only to be jumped by another beast from behind, and he is too preoccupied by the horrendous sight to notice that the foes have already noticed him as well. He barely dodges and almost trips and falls as a warg bites and rends with its claws at him. He slashes with Sting quite blindly, which only attracts the attention of one more warg with its rider. They’re closing in on him sinisterly and Bilbo just about remembers about the ring in his pocket when Thorin suddenly jumps in - he slays the warg and the orc topples to the ground, only to meet his swift end as well.

“Bilbo!” Thorin exclaims, yanking at his coat and pulling him closer, “stay behind me.”

 

“I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” Bilbo squeaks.

They are surrounded - three orcs and two wargs are approaching from all sides, and Bilbo concentrates very hard on his knees not buckling. It all seemed so hopeful for a few seconds there, but he was right, of course he was right, that damned forest wouldn’t let them go so easily...

“Thorin,” he yelps urgently, and he doesn’t even have anything to say, really, the King’s name just escapes his lips like a desperate plea.

“I’m sorry,” the dwarf repeats, quietly now, his back pressed to Bilbo’s, and the hobbit closes his eyes for a split second, and everything is suddenly silent and he can imagine himself above the treetops again, gentle breeze playing with his hair, the clouds and the butterflies.

 

Of course, he opens his eyes to a warg muzzle and a set of fangs sharp as razors and he shrieks, and at the same time, Thorin moves and Bilbo loses balance, falling on his back. He has the sense to stay down and fumble for the ring in his pocket. He slips it on quickly and the warg who was just about to devour him huffs in surprise. In the meantime, Thorin has managed to fend off his first attacker, but as he looks around frantically for Bilbo, he fails to notice an orc charging him until it’s very nearly too late. He parries the attack, but it knocks him off his feet, and paralyzed and terrified, Bilbo watches as he tries to regain composure. He jumps to his own feet and slashes at the warg closest to Thorin. The beast whines and growls, but the source of the attack is unclear to it.

“Bilbo?” Thorin breathes out, puzzled, “where are you?”

He scrambles to his feet also, but the foes have lost their patience. Two orcs at once attack the King, and he manages to slay one, but the other deals a nasty blow that Thorin doesn’t quite manage to fend off. He is sent back staggering, only to be bitten and slashed at by a warg. His cry of pain transforms into a furious growl and he swivels to kill the warg, but the orcs use that to their advantage and manage to topple him to the ground. Bilbo now realizes what a foolish move it was to disappear, and he takes a deep breath, sliding the ring off again, and jumping at the nearest warg. The beast roars as he manages to very nearly slice its back open with Sting, and it attacks him, its muzzle jabbing into Bilbo’s stomach, not biting but simply pushing, and the power of it sends the hobbit flying.

He lands on his back rather painfully, but scrambles to his feet immediately, and the sight before him writhes a horrified cry out of him.

“Thorin, no!”

All that is visible of the King are his boots kicking the air in vain as he tries to scramble away, the foes already too close. He roars in pain as the first warg bites in, and all Bilbo sees for a single breathless second is the white of fangs and the red of blood. Thorin screams then as the second warg joins in, and Bilbo is spurred into action by that, at last. Quite blindly and with a shriek that would certainly terrify any hobbit, he sprints back and slashes at everything that moves. He manages to cause quite the momentary chaos, wargs leaping away from Thorin and orcs snorting in shock, and he manages to get close to the King.

“Leave him alone! Get away!” Bilbo shouts half ferociously, half desperately.

He is far too well reminded of almost the same situation not so very long ago, but they had a company of dwarves come to their rescue then, didn’t they...

 

“Oi! O’er here ya lumps!”

Bilbo gasps in surprise. Someone has come to their aid! He can’t see the newcomer very well behind the mass of orc and warg bodies, but he certainly seems to catch their attention.

“Come on!”

Their foes actually hesitate, and Bilbo loses all remnants of common sense then and kneels to Thorin.

“Oh, no,” a whine escapes him.

There’s lots of blood, so much more blood than before.

“Thorin, wake up, please, up you go...”

The King’s eyes flutter open, just slivers of bright blue amidst the dirt and grime, and widen as he wriggles, trying to reach his sword. Before Bilbo can react, Thorin yanks at the front of his shirt and pulls him to the ground, thrusting Orcrist up with his other hand and running it through the chest of an orc. He groans in pain as the orc falls to his knees and almost topples over him, and Bilbo jumps to his feet, pushing the body away.

“Thorin, come on,” he pleads, extending his hand to him, “up on your feet!”

Thorin’s eyelids are heavy as he blinks up at him, shaking his head slowly, and Bilbo is about to fall to his knees next to him once again, when a victorious roar echoes from behind him.

“Hey there, little Master! Some help here?”

 

For the first time, Bilbo can take in the man who has come to help them, even though not properly, really - he is just a flurry of of red hair and formidable muscles and what looks like an axe, and he has already managed to take down one warg and one orc. Bilbo takes a few hesitant steps towards him, and the warg decides to concentrate on him, a much easier prey. The beast jumps and Bilbo is once again knocked off his feet, this time much more painfully as the beast’s claw tear both cloth and flesh on his shoulder. He gasps as he hits his head, and everything turns into a swirling mess of colors and fur and teeth then, because he scrambles to his feet and sees the warg attacking Thorin again - he jumps again, one last time he feels, his muscles, bones, everything, too sore, blood soaking his shirt and overcoat, and he slashes and slashes until the body under him jolts violently and he is launched into the air again.

  
This time, when he falls, he swears he could hear something crack, but then everything goes black as suddenly as blowing out a candle and he knows no more.


	2. Silver Linings

He remembers the summers in Ered Luin. There were flowers and birds and gentle breeze, and their knees slipped and bruised on fresh grass as they sparred with Dwalin on the makeshift training grounds in the shadows of large chestnut trees.

“So unlike the Mountain,” he would hear the grown-ups mutter, “not a home fit for a dwarf.”

He never understood why it wasn’t a home fit for a dwarf, because he grew up with the flowers and birds and grass and chestnuts, and he loved it. He and Kili would scale the pines and throw cones at passers-by (mostly Dwalin), and practice archery on the squirrels when no one was looking, and gather daisies and harebells and red weeds so that Mother would have something to adorn the lunch table with.

He can smell it now, the plants and the earth, and a faint hint of the smoke of great bonfires burning long into the night, and when his eyes flutter open, everything is green, and he dreams they’re lying on their backs side by side, him and Kili, their shoulders and knees brushing and bumping, and bat away bees and ants and try to tell the shapes of the clouds high up above.

  
  


He remembers in the next second, and scrambles to his feet with a gasp, and his head sways and his temples throb, and he almost ends up on the ground again. He tries to focus, and even when he manages, the green doesn’t subside. He is in a small, peculiar room - a cell, he corrects himself as he inspects the strange, curved wooden bars at the far end of it. The walls and low ceiling are wooden as well, polished sprouts - it almost looks like the whole room is just one big plant. He then realizes he’s not wearing his armor anymore, just his undershirt, breeches and boots, and his weapons are nowhere in sight either. The room is barren save a bundle of rags he must have slept in, and a pitcher of water and a mug he decides to avoid for now.

_Elves,_ he thinks, and his frown evolves into a cough, a foreign, foul taste in his mouth reminding him of the encounter with the spiders. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to calm his mind.

He finds he desperately needs to see a familiar face, preferably Thorin’s... Thorin would know what to do, surely. Absentmindedly brushing webs and twigs out of his hair with his fingers, he inspects the corridor outside the cell. It continues as far as he can see on both sides, illuminated in regular intervals by the delicately shaped lanterns like golden-orange beads.

He hesitates, then calls out for his family. No response, and he listens to the sound carry until it dies off in some of the remote corners of his prison. He reaches into his boot - even the throwing knives are gone. He fiddles with the door for a while, but he can’t for the life of him discover how the lock works. Perhaps Nori would be able to get out...

  
  


He hears the footsteps then, multiple, approaching quite quickly, and he straightens up, stepping back from the door. Three elves appear, and the woman, long hair redder than Bombur’s, dangles a key for him to see.

“My name is Tauriel, dwarf, and you are in the halls of the King Thranduil. We will take you to him now, and you will answer any questions he has to ask, else you will die by my own hand.”

Fili scoffs.

“Where is the rest of my company?” he demands.

Tauriel ignores him, and motions for her companions - they barge in after she unlocks the door and pull Fili’s hands behind his back quite unceremoniously, binding them tightly. He hisses at them, but keeps his mouth shut, lacking any real energy to fight back. Fortunately, they don’t blindfold him, but he soon realizes it isn’t any real benefit - the corridors he’s being pulled and shoved through look all the same, winding and ending in staircases with steps too tall for dwarf legs, in the most unexpected places. He tries spotting or at least hearing the others, but the whole dungeon is sinisterly quiet, save an ever present distant hum, and the occasional crack and buzz - it makes him feel like they are inside a tree, and that the whole of it is much, much bigger than it seems.

  
  


At last, they enter into a far brighter glow, and he blinks against it at first, but then the sight steals his breath. They are now atop a bridge, a pathway crossing an enormous hall with ceilings so high they are sunken in shadow. He has never been afraid of heights, naturally, but one look down makes his heart beat a little faster - there are other bridges below the one they’re walking on, crisscrossing the span of the hall, and numerous elves march seemingly in every direction, looking up as he is ushered on. The air is more humid here, too, almost too much for dwarven lungs to bear. 

Another flight of stairs later, they enter a regal looking room - a throne chamber. There, the Elvenking lounges in a chair of carven wood and what seems like antlers, a slender figure in silver, a crown of bright leaves and berries (distasteful to Fili’s mind, but, oh well, elves) resting on his head, lips quirked in a cold smirk.

“Welcome,” he tilts his head towards Fili, making it sound much more like ‘Begone’.

Eyebrows raised, he waits for an answer, and smiles bitterly when he receives none.

“Tell me, Master dwarf, what business does a company such as yours find in Mirkwood?”

Fili grits his teeth, and glares, while his mind speeds to come up with the best possible solution to the situation. He remembers very little from his studies as a child, but the Elvenking was mentioned more than once, and always with a frown, a warning, and vaguely mentioned betrayal. Certainly Uncle would not wish for him to interfere with the quest.

“We wandered off the road,” he supplies begrudgingly.

“Understandable,” Thranduil smiles sweetly, “but _where were you going?_ ”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Fili groans, and is slapped over the top of his head immediately afterwards.

“Pay more respect to the King,” Tauriel hisses.

  
  


But Thranduil chuckles shortly and waves her off.

“May I remind you that my sentinels saved your life?” he notes sardonically, “when they found you, you were hanging upside down, wrapped in cobwebs and slowly getting poisoned. Not to mention they chased away the orcs you so carelessly lured into our forest. They risked their lives to save yours on more than one occasion, and you’d do well to show your gratitude.”

Fili balls his fists quite inadvertently.

“We didn’t _ask_ for your help, we would have managed on our own! When we tried communicating with your _sentinels_ , begged them to show us the way, they simply laughed at us! As far as I’m concerned, you’re the ones who lured us _here_ so that you might imprison us.”

The Elvenking rises from his throne in one graceful move, silent but somehow infinitely intimidating, and Fili prides himself on not budging an inch.

“This is _our_ forest,” he speaks clearly as he approaches Fili almost languidly, “we live in peace, and have no interest in the matters of dwarves, much less orcs. You venture in, disturbing the quiet and leading an enemy to our doorstep, and we help you, because we have no other choice. I do believe it’s fair to say we deserve to know what you’re doing here.”

He is standing but inches away from Fili now, and he has to tilt his head quite a bit to be able to retain eye contact, but he will be damned if he shows but a sign of weakness. He keeps his mouth shut and the Elvenking measures him, his eyes widening an almost imperceptible amount as he notices something. He raises his hand to Fili’s cheek and he recoils, but immediately, there are two firm hands on his shoulders to keep him still.

Thranduil takes one of his braids in between his fingers and scrutinizes the large metal bead. His eyes flash from it to Fili and back, and then a wide, ominous smile spreads over his face.

  
  


“The Line of Durin, if I’m not mistaken,” he says, and a shiver runs up Fili’s spine as cold blue eyes like sapphires pierce him with newfound curiosity.

“Tell me, Master dwarf,” the Elvenking drawls, “where is your King?”

-

  
  


Bilbo opens his eyes to a white-gold shine and for a blissful moment thinks he’s back at home in the Shire, and sharp late-afternoon sun is making its way through the circular windows, reminding him that it’s time for tea. But his head hurts too much for that to be true, and as he does his best to focus, the shadows and blurs of colors readjust themselves, and he finds he’s lying in a bed in a beautiful room. In fact, it is probably quite plain, thick wooden beams supporting the roof, and shelves filled with dozens of books lining the timber walls, but oh, there’s an incredibly comfortable looking armchair in the far corner, and he inhales the fresh scent of clean linen, and it’s the closest to home he’s felt in a long time.

He sits up, not without hardship, and he finds most of his clothes and Sting in a neat bundle on a chair next to the bed. His shoulder announces itself painfully, and he finds it heavily bandaged. He blinks away the drowsiness and tries his damnedest to remember, but his mind supplies him with nothing but flashing images of grass and water rushing over rocks and strange red-orange leaves, and before he manages to clear his head, the door flies open and someone enters.

  
  


A woman steers inside, balancing in her arms a tray with a jug and a bowl. She yelps happily when she notices Bilbo is up and about, and sets it down at the foot of the bed.

“Bilbo Baggins! Oh, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” she all but sings, “how are you feeling?”

Bilbo scratches his head, brows furrowing, and makes a feeble attempt to somehow wrap his shirt around his shoulders more tightly to make himself more presentable.

“I, ah... Excuse me, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he blubbers.

The woman is a hobbit, which baffles him somewhat. Not by any means an ordinary one, mind you - of about average height for their folk, but surprisingly lithe, wearing clothes many back at the Shire would probably consider ‘scandalously vagabond’. A thick braid of hair of an exceptionally rich reddish-brown color, with a grey streak here and there, frames her round face, bright eyes like fresh spring grass contrasting with her tan skin. She tilts her head to one side and furrows her brows in a mock-displeased grimace.

“Shame,” she tsk-tsks, “we _are_ both much older now, but I did hope you’d remember me.”

His face must be a particularly exquisite picture of utter confusion, because she laughs then, wrinkles around her eyes pronouncing and making her seem even fonder.

“My name is Tylda,” she supplies at last, “Matylda Sackville!”

  
  


For the longest time, Bilbo simply gapes at her, and ever so slowly, he begins to remember.

“No...” he breathes out in disbelief, “really? But you... you were declared deceased by the Sackville-Bagginses over ten years ago! Let me tell you, the swiftness with which they sold your house... oh, I’m sorry...”

His head spins maliciously then, and he needs to close his eyes for a moment. When he opens them again, Tylda sits at the side of the bed, the kindest smile dancing on her lips.

“We scaled trees when we were little, you and I, Bilbo Baggins,” she says fondly.

Bilbo rubs at his face and finds it damp from perspiration. Indeed, he feels a strange sort of weariness down to his joints, and there’s still something he’s not remembering...

“That we did,” he mumbles, “and played hide and seek in the corn fields.”

_And then we weren’t children anymore,_ his memory supplies with surprising clarity, _and you were gone one day, just like that, off for an adventure they said, and you were the first and last one to bring shame on the Sackville-Bagginses, if I’m not mistaken._

“...But how are you... here?” he mumbles instead, “...Where are we exactly?”

“My household,” she replies, “and trust me, I’d much rather you were invited in under more pleasant circumstances, but alas - welcome, to the Harrow Mill over Mirkwood.”

  
  


And he recalls then, with a surprisingly physical jab of pain that sends shivers up his back. His hands fly to his mouth.

“Oh no,” he mumbles through his fingers, “Thorin! M-my companion, the dwarf! Is he quite alright?”

His stomach lurches violently as he remembers the fangs of the wargs, and the blood, so much blood... Tylda averts her gaze.

“Please,” Bilbo demands, “is he...?”

“He’s... he was very severely wounded. He hasn’t woken up quite yet.”

“...Oh,” Bilbo sighs, and all energy seems to leave his body at once, and he sinks back into the pillows.

“May I see him?” he mutters weakly.

Tylda smiles sadly and reaches to pat his hand.

“I think it’s best if you don’t just yet,” she says softly and smiles encouragingly, “you need to get some more rest of your own. But I assure you, your friend is in very good hands - my husband is tending to him right now, and he knows his way around healing, believe me.”

“Y-your husband?” Bilbo stutters, “is he the one who came to help us? Swinging an ax and quite... quite large?” 

Tylda nods with a laugh.

“Yes, that’s Ludo. He sends his regards, by the way. He says he’s never seen someone so little fight so ferociously. Seems like you impressed him.”

Bilbo smiles weakly, and accepts the drink of water Tylda hands him. It calms his throat, and he is about ready to go back to sleep.

“You saved your dwarf’s life, too, according to him,” Tylda remarks, and Bilbo sighs, burying himself deeper into the warmth of the incredibly comfortable bed.

“Oh, golly me,” he moans, “just when I thought I was done with all that.”

  
  


Tylda bends over him to brush the sweat-drenched strands of hair from his forehead, and the last thing he sees before unconsciousness takes him is her warm smile, and then he dreams of the endless meadows of the Shire bathing in golden sunlight.

  
  


He is woken up the next time by the best thing a hobbit can possibly wish to be woken up by - the smell of something baking. It takes him a good while to gather himself, but he finds he is in an infinitely better state now, so he flings his feet off the mattress, takes a long gulp of the water waiting for him on the end table by the bed, slips into his vest (what’s left of it anyway - Tylda washed it and even made a valiant attempt at repairing the worst, but it’s simply been through too much) and decides to go discovering, mainly to make sure appearing here wasn’t just a dream.

And to find Thorin, which he, frankly, fears.

With a sigh, he tests his shoulder - it only pinches a little - and is marginally relieved when his fingers touch the cold metal of his ring in the front pocket of his vest. He goes to look out of the window, and finds it is on the second floor of the building, looking over what must be the backyard, and beyond it a meadow, long, spiky grass swimming in a sea of morning mist, soon to be dispersed. He cannot see much more beyond that, maybe a shadow of another building on the horizon, and so he wanders out of the room, slowly - his legs still feel a bit wobbly.

  
  


A gallery stretches both to his left, where there are more doors and a staircase leading down, and right, ending by the wall and another window. Curiously, he ventures there, feet patting at the carpeted floor, but he picks up on a peculiar smell as he passes the first room, door wide open, and one peek inside stops him dead.

“Oh,” he sighs raggedly, “oh, no.”

It is Thorin, and he is an absolutely horrible sight. He rests in a bed similar to Bilbo’s, his face a sickly shade of almost-grey, swollen and beaten, and he notices blood still crusted in his beard and hair. His armor and weapons lay discarded by the wall, and his bare chest is heavily bandaged - as he nears the bed, Bilbo realizes that’s where the smell is coming from. A bowl of greenish mixture sits on the end table, and the same paste soaks through Thorin’s bandages at several places. The scent isn’t unpleasant - herbs, mint perhaps, hopefully some sort of powerful healing salve...

Bilbo gulps as he lays his eyes on a large bowl of water in the foot of the bed, and a heap of rags, both tinted red. Finally, he sits down at the very edge of the bed, very carefully, but Thorin’s features don’t move an inch, his face ominously serene, and it takes Bilbo far too long to see his chest heaving almost imperceptibly in strained, irregular breathing. He hangs his head and sees Thorin’s hand, the contrast of the dirty and bruised skin and the crisp white of the sheets too violent, and, quite mindlessly, he brushes his thumb along the King’s scraped knuckles and slides his fingers into his palm, but it is cold as ice and unmoving, and Bilbo is overcome by great misery and tears almost prickle in his eyes.

  
  


He wishes Gandalf were with them - surely he would mutter a word or two in a forgotten language again, and Thorin would spring to his feet and off they would go... But no, this time misfortune seems to be taking a more permanent place by their side. He squeezes the dwarf’s fingers, willing him awake.

“Oh, I wish none of you had ever appeared at my doorstep,” he mutters, though he knows it to be a rather blatant lie.

  
  


“Bilbo,” comes a beckon, and at first he thinks it’s Thorin, but then realizes it came from behind him.

Tylda is standing in the door, and when Bilbo flushes and stands up abruptly, she merely smiles gently.

“Come eat,” she says, and makes her way past him to gather the blood-stained rags and replace them with clean ones, “warm milk and pie will do you good. Ludo should be back from work by now, and I’m sure he will be more than willing to let you help take care of the dwarf.”

“I... yes, yes, you’re right,” Bilbo stutters, “thank you, I’d like that. The, the pie, I mean...”

Tylda chuckles, and waits for him to join her in the hallway.

  
  


She leads him downstairs, and he can’t help but think of Beorn’s house as he admires the interior. Everything is larger than life as far as hobbits go, perhaps not fashioned for a giant such as Beorn, but certainly spacious. Beautifully carved wood makes up about everything, from chairs and tables to, strangely, beer pints, and there are tufts of dry herbs hanging from the beams, and pelts nailed to the walls, and books and parchments and beautifully embroidered rugs covering just about every available surface, and Bilbo never thought a building quite as large could feel quite as cozy.

In the kitchen - scaled to Tylda’s needs and thus appearing quite humorous compared to the rest of the house - he is presented with a slice of apple pie that makes his stomach rumble out loud, and greeted by Ludo, Matylda’s husband. Taking in his appearance properly for the first time, Bilbo is nothing short of intimidated. The man is about thrice the size of an average hobbit (raising some questions about his union with one, that Bilbo will save for later, or perhaps never), tall even for his kind, wide shoulders and arm muscles like tree trunks, bare because he’s wearing just a leather vest. His face, framed by thick, long blond curls of both hair and beard, braided neatly (the color reminds Bilbo of Fili and his spirits fade for a moment), is peppered with freckles and stretched in the warmest of smiles.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he booms, and the hobbit in question almost takes an inadvertent step back, “it is an honor tae meet ye officially! I’m Ludo!”

“H-hello, kind sir! Nice to meet you too, I’m sure,” Bilbo replies breathlessly and watches in mild horror as the man covers his outstretched hand in both of his and shakes it mightily.

“I, I can’t thank you enough for saving our lives,” he says politely once he regains his composure at least a little bit.

“Ach, don’t mention it!” Ludo laughs, “almost looks like fate brought the two of ye here! My wife certainly seems tae think so.”

“‘An incredible coincidence’ is the term I used, I believe,” Tylda smiles.

Ludo grins.

“But do tell, what were a hobbit and a dwarf doing at the edge of Mirkwood in such a miserable state?” he demands cheerfully, “or, better yet, what o’ the orc pack? It’s been years since I’ve seen one o’ those buggers this far east! Oh, I think I’ll enjoy this story!”

“Do let the poor thing eat first, for crying out loud,” Tylda scolds him, and he deflates.

“I will tell you everything to my best knowledge, I promise,” Bilbo hurries to assure him, and then almost dissipates in bliss as he takes the first bite of the pie, at long last.

  
  


He does tell them everything, with a long prelude of how he came by the dwarves in the Shire (Tylda demands to be filled in on some of the goings and happenings there), then the dreadful business in the Misty Mountains (omitting the ring for now), their stay at Beorn’s house (whom they seem to be rather well acquainted with, despite the vastness of the whole of Mirkwood separating them), and finally their plight in the forest itself.

They seem impressed with Thorin’s quest, and have few kind words for the elves.

“Aye, it’s possible Thranduil the Elvenking has the rest of yer company now,” Ludo states.

“I’m certain Thorin will try to go running back after them the minute he’s well enough if he learns that,” Bilbo sighs.

He knows very little about the origin of the animosity between the dwarves and the elves, but he’s seen enough of it with his own eyes already.

“Well, we’re not going tae be the ones tae stop ‘im, that’s for sure,” Ludo chuckles, “but you should know there are no proper roads this side of the forest for miles, and you’ll pro’lly only get lost again. Tell ya what, though - I am heading there tomorrow again, so I’ll scout out ahead a little bit, an’ see what I can see.”

“Oh... oh! Are you also a shape-changer, like Beorn?” Bilbo inquires, at which both Ludo and Tylda burst into gleeful laughter.

“An’ what would make ya think that, little Master?” Ludo asks, bemused.

“Oh, I simply thought... I’m so sorry,” Bilbo stutters, flushed, “I didn’t mean to...”

“I’m nothing but a miller and a lumberer,” Ludo says with a toothy grin, “I don’t need tae be able tae turn into a bear tae know me way around the forest.”

“Of course, of course, I’m sorry I ever... assumed...” Bilbo blubbers, and they both eye him in good spirits.

“Alright then,” Ludo claps his hands, wiping the last crumbs of the pie off his moustache,  “time to tend to that King of yours. Care tae assist?”

  
  


The task proves to be even more worrisome than Bilbo anticipated. He of course has absolutely no experience with these sorts of things, and so Ludo simply puts a damp cloth in his hand and tells him to try and scrub the old blood off Thorin’s face. Bilbo tries his very best and decides not to be unnerved by the stillness of Thorin’s features throughout. He is somewhat morbidly fascinated when Ludo begins uncovering the wounds on Thorin’s chest, but his stomach sways dangerously when he actually does see the damage. There is still an atrocious amount of blood, both old and new, and stitches and reddened and swollen skin and various grime that Ludo begins cleaning off, large hands surprisingly gentle, and before long, Bilbo has to look away.

Suddenly, he recalls old Took splitting his leg in that unfortunate accident at the fair when Bilbo himself was not older than ten or eleven, and blood soaking into soil as Belladona, Bilbo’s mother, tended to the wound on the back porch of their home. He was afraid then, Bilbo was, that Grandpa’s blood wouldn’t go back, that it was lost forever, and surely he would need that? Belladona did her best to explain to him how that particular process worked, and he refused second dinner afterwards.

  
  


“You don’t need tae be here,” Ludo says gently, and Bilbo comes to.

“No,” he sighs, and goes on about brushing stray curly strands from the King’s forehead (has there really always been so much grey in his hair?) and dabbing at his cheeks gently with the cloth, “I very much think I do.”

-

  
  


He doesn’t get to see Kili, or any other member of the company, for days. Or, for what might be days. It’s almost impossible to keep track of time in the dungeon - the only regular occurrence is a guard bringing food (surprisingly decent). He soon learns to listen to the sounds of the place, simply because he has nothing better to do. He now believes the hum he hears is actually a river or a stream. Every now and then, music echoes faintly through the corridor, and a visibly inebriated elf or two pass his cell without much care for the hunched figure inside.

  
  


When he stoutly refused to offer any kind of information about Thorin, the Elvenking quickly lost interest. Fili can only hope the rest of the company have enough wits about them to keep quiet as well. He forces himself to think positively, of Thorin and the little burglar - surely they managed to escape and get out and away. Soon, he finds solace in dreaming, as sleep proves to be the best way to kill time. He plots and plots, but it becomes apparent that fleeing is impossible - at last he resorts to diplomacy (surely the Elvenking will respond to a promise of gold), when his dull everyday routine is finally interrupted.

Tauriel comes for him, alone this time, and ushers him out of the cell and into the maze of the palace wordlessly, refusing to respond to any of his inquiries and simply ordering him to hurry.

He is led to the throne chamber again, and he gasps, shocked and relieved, when he discovers the rest of the company awaiting him. They all look exhausted and famished, some quite badly bruised, grimaces ranging from pained and desperate to disgusted and angry, but they are alive. They are together.

The elves let him go to them, and he receives many a pat on the back and a spontaneous hug from Kili, which almost makes his knees buckle - his brother is sporting a black eye and quite a number of bruises that look fresher than what the spiders could have caused. He blinks away the tears and hooks his arm around Kili’s shoulders.

“What have you done?” he hisses.

“Made some noise,” Kili grins, the mischievous glint in his eyes never fading.

  
  


“Well then,” they are interrupted by the Elvenking, “how amiable.”

Thranduil enters the room with a cool facade of regal resentment. He sits in his throne and simply glares at the company for the longest time, until they begin getting rather angry.

“What is the purpose of this?” Balin demands.

Thranduil raises his hand.

“I considered your offer,” he states, “tell your brethren so that they are aware of the full extent of the situation.”

Confused glances are exchanged.

“What offer, brother?” Dwalin inquires.

Balin looks at Fili, who nods. The older dwarf smiles somberly. Of course he would be quicker to assess the situation and come up with a possible solution, Fili thinks, not without a vague pang of jealousy. He still has much to learn.

“I offered the Elvenking an unspecified share of Erebor’s riches, in exchange for our release.”

The reactions follow as anticipated - angry groans, loud refusals, incredulous huffs of laughter.

“It is the only way!” Fili interrupts the chaos strongly, clearly.

“Thorin would strangle us if he learned,” Dwalin growls.

“I’m afraid Thorin’s not here,” Balin sighs, “and Durin’s Day is coming.”

  
  


“Oh, yes, your Durin’s Day,” the Elvenking, who has been watching the development with a bemused smirk, interjects, “what _is_ so special about it?”

“None of your damn business,” Dwalin spits, backed by a rather flowery curse in Khuzdul from Bifur.

Balin sighs and puts a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder, and Fili steps forward, his hand gently brushing off Kili’s.

“We have a certain... timeline in which we must reach the Mountain,” he offers, perfectly ready for another round of horrified, offended groans of his comrades.

But Balin stands next to him and his mere presence reassures the prince.

“Are you willing to accept our offer?” he asks the Elvenking in his best coldly polite tone.

  
  


The elf is silent for the longest time.

“Hmm,” he drawls finally, “no. _But-_ ” he raises his voice to quell the inevitable protests, “I would present a different arrangement.”

“We are willing to listen,” Fili says, ignoring the stream of insults and promises of all sorts of inflicted pain coming from behind him.

“Excellent,” Thranduil smiles slyly, “as you know yourselves, this forest is now unfortunately overrun by all manner of foul creatures (the somewhat expected “Such as your sodding self” comes from Bofur). We have been taking precautions, and fighting off the spiders for a very long time now. We suspect they have built a system of underground lairs that allow them swift escape and an upper hand. Since we are not as skilled in... underground work, we would ask for your _expertise_ to help us rid Mirkwood of them.”

Despite the fact that he makes sure every single word drips sarcasm, it is obvious that the Elvenking is serious about his need of the dwarves’ skills, and the prospect makes him uncomfortable, that much Fili can see even through the carefully constructed stoic posture.

“What is our gain?” he demands.

“...Your freedom,” Thranduil supplies somewhat begrudgingly.

“And?” Balin adds, blinking at Fili encouragingly.

“...And are you under the impression that you deserve more?” the Elvenking retorts incredulously.

“Are _you_ under the impression that we will slave away for you?” Balin holds his ground, “at the very least we will require more decent accommodation.”

“And better food!” someone else supplies eagerly.

Thranduil glares at them, tapping his slender fingers on the armrest of his pompous throne.

“The old barracks by the stables is empty as of now,” Tauriel offers, and comes to stand by the throne, and she and Thranduil begin a quiet discussion in their tongue.

  
  


The mood within the company rises tenfold as they await the Elvenking’s decision. The prospect of more comfort is nothing short of exhilarating at this point, and already, some start describing at length the meals they will order, planning to all but pillage the elves’ undoubtedly well-stocked pantries. Fili allows himself a relieved, almost contented sigh, and Balin pats him on the shoulder gently.

“We will make some good out of this yet,” he smiles.

“I’m just hoping Uncle and Bilbo have had their share of luck as well,” Fili replies, to which Kili responds, grabbing at his brother’s sleeve and wedging himself in between him and Balin.

“I bet they’re on their way to reclaim Erebor _right now_ ,” he supplies cheerfully.

Fili chuckles, and Balin’s smile widens some. He vehemently resists the urge to lay his head on Kili’s shoulder in resignation and remain like that for a good long while - his brother’s good mood might be almost boundless, but they all know their chances of seeing their Uncle and King, and little Bilbo, ever again in the foreseeable future, are wavering. The thought of them separated, each wandering through the hostile darkness of the forest alone, fills Fili with a dull dread - he inhales deeply to chase it away, and instead directs his attention to the elves.

They seem to have reached some sort of decision at last, because Tauriel motions to the guards by the door, and they circle the dwarves to gently, but firmly herd them closer together.

“You will be moved to the barracks,” Thranduil states, “you will be offered food and drink, and I trust you will not betray our hospitality. You shall discuss the details of our arrangement with Captain Tauriel tomorrow.”

  
  


With that, he waves them off, and they are rushed over countless bridges and down long stairways, until the air gets colder and begins to smell fresher, and for the first time, the palace comes alive - they hear chatter and music, and smell food being prepared, and bump into numerous elves, in groups or alone, who always stop and gape at them with half-shocked, half-amused expressions.

The old barracks consists of two large, arid rooms below a spiral staircase, with beds and shelves and tables and stools, even small windows, and they settle in quite quickly and easily, as is, after all, their nature. They manage to lower and clean out the large chandeliers (to an ill-disguised amazement of the elves, who supply them with matches afterwards, if a bit warily), and before long, food is served.

In a matter of minutes, they’re laughing at each other, complaining about too much salad or whatever the ever-present green stuff is, remembering old recipes and assuring each other that dwarven ways to prepare deer are much more effective, and lounging on the beds. The absence of Thorin is still painfully apparent in the split-second glances of the older ones - their bedrock has crumbled, and perhaps the hardest work in the coming days will be to find a different kind of cause, something for them to lean on, something to keep them going.

But for now, Fili thinks as he finally, finally lays his head to rest beside his brother, the promise of a good night’s sleep will do just fine for the company of Thorin Oakenshield.

-

  
  


Bilbo has taken to reading. He is not quite physically fit enough yet to help Matylda in her garden, however excited that prospect makes him - she orders him to rest, and he scrutinizes the contents of the library in his room until he finds a thin volume pertaining to the history of this or that town of men. After some consideration, he makes a habit out of reading by Thorin’s bedside before lunch and dinner (after, he assists Ludo with tending to Thorin with a somewhat stubborn determination, and indeed he usually barely leaves the room at all). It takes a whole of five days, but at last the King wakes, if very briefly.

Wrapped in furs against the increasing chill in an armchair by the window, the hobbit begins dozing off, when the peaceful silence is interrupted by a groan and a huff, and an almost imperceptible sigh: “...Bilbo?”

He hops out of the armchair and to Thorin, heart pounding, and the dwarf looks up at him, heavy-lidded eyes barely open.

“...Where are we?” he murmurs, then, coughing dryly, “water.”

Bilbo hurries to bring a cup to Thorin’s mouth, but he is weak yet, and the first gulp ends up mostly in his beard, and, without much hesitation, Bilbo slides one hand into his hair to help him tilt his head. Having sated a great thirst, the King sinks back into the pillows with a wince.

“You shouldn’t move much,” Bilbo informs him, “your injuries are quite extensive.”

“Yes, I can tell,” Thorin breathes out, managing a mildly sarcastic undertone even now, “I remember... wargs?”

“...Yes,” Bilbo nods, “we made it out of Mirkwood, but the pack followed us, and...” he trails off, quite unable to describe the attack out loud still.

Thorin blinks slowly, gazing out of the window.

“Where are we?” he repeats.

“Oh, in a place called the Harrow Mill. You might remember a, a man coming to our aid in the attack? His name is Ludo, and he resides here with his wife, Matylda, who, believe it or not, is a childhood friend of mine!”

When he finishes, Thorin’s eyes are closed and it’s as if unconsciousness has claimed him again, and Bilbo scolds himself mentally for tiring him with useless details. But then the dwarf sighs deeply and he looks on Bilbo with a strange, momentary intensity.

“...I do believe you saved my life once again,” he whispers hoarsely, “or did I dream that?”

“Did you... no, no! I mean, I didn’t... It was nothing, really,” Bilbo stutters.

A weary smile flashes over the King’s dry lips.

“Your achievements aren’t numerous, Bilbo,” he breathes, “do not belittle them.”

The hobbit can’t quite help the half-incredulous, half-relieved chuckle, and Thorin’s smile broadens, but one deep, ragged intake of breath later, slumber overtakes him once again.

  
  


Fortunately, the King’s moments of consciousness begin to prolong in the coming days, and Bilbo finds himself calming down and really properly relaxing in what feels like a lifetime. The Harrow Mill is indeed an almost wonderfully peaceful place, considering its close proximity to the dreadful forest. It consists of two buildings - the house of Matylda and Ludo, and the mill itself further into the meadows, where a brisk river powers it. Accompanied by an apple orchard, a beautiful garden, and pastures for a couple of goats, some chickens and one large chestnut mare (Ludo’s helper in his difficult work), this all is managed alone by the unusual couple. Sometimes, merchants stop by for a bag or two of the fine flour the mill produces, but otherwise, the estate (though barely deserving of the name) is blissfully quiet.

A creature of comfort, Bilbo incorporates himself into the steady rhythm of it almost seamlessly in a matter of days - Tylda relents and lets him help with winterizing her herbs and flowers, and they spend the afternoons sitting on the veranda, swapping stories, and the evenings in the kitchen, cooking and baking and canning cherries and apples. Not a day goes by without a pang of guilt for all that he’s forgetting so easily - indeed he’d grown very fond of all the dwarves before they parted ways so abruptly, and the Tookish part of him still whispers about laziness and unfinished business.

Quite on his own accord, he asks Ludo to teach him to treat Thorin’s wounds - the prospect makes him sick to his stomach at first, but he prevails and learns quickly. He thinks of his family back in the Shire, sometimes - surely they would be appalled, he decides, not without a smile, as he learns about stitches and blood streams and the healing properties of various herbs and how to combine them. But he can’t help himself, he is quite intrigued - it’s all a little bit like gardening, if with a tad more... blood, and imminent danger.

The one thing that baffles him is his teacher himself - he would not mistake Ludo for a scholar if he met him in the street. His appearance suggests great strength and bravery, and indeed, he disappears into the forest regularly, sometimes for days on end, and comes back unexpectedly, whistling or humming an unknown tune, forehead glistening with perspiration and a great grin over his face and arm muscles heaving as he carries a deer or two, or pulls an enormous log behind him. But then there is his vast knowledge of medicine, far beyond anything a hobbit like Bilbo has ever encountered, and the evenings when he cracks open a book as they sit in front of the fireplace, and reads and reads, serenely, long after Bilbo’s eyes have begun closing on their own.

He tries asking Matylda, and she smiles sweetly and provides some information, but it is always very carefully vague, and Bilbo soon gives up out of politeness. This arrangement is a temporary one anyway, he tries to remind himself as often as he can. So far, Thorin’s injuries prevent him from doing much more than sleeping through most of the day, but it is obvious he will want to continue their journey as soon as he can all but stand straight, and though he sometimes secretly wishes for that moment to come in the farthest future possible, Bilbo knows very well he will follow.

  
  


It is of course then, when Thorin’s begun to be able to keep himself awake a little longer, and they’ve started regular and not by any account unpleasant talks as Bilbo watches the King carefully sip his soup, that the bad news come.

Ludo comes home one late chilly afternoon after a particularly long stay in the forest, and this time, he doesn’t bring firewood or prey. He announces himself just when Thorin wakes up for dinner and Bilbo’s started lighting the lamps, and drops his find in the King’s lap.

“Thought this might be one o’ yours. Obviously not of elvish make.”

Bilbo gulps as Thorin stills - the bow he takes in his hands overly carefully is almost ridiculously small, smaller than Bilbo remembers it, and very definitely Kili’s.

“This doesn’t... mean anything,” Bilbo breathes out, “Thorin.”

The dwarf casts him a look of utter bewilderment, his face stricken, the sudden tremor in his hands most certainly not caused by his physical weakness.

“At best it means they were taken,” he says hoarsely, running his fingers over the length of the weapon absentmindedly.

“Aye, that’s what I reckoned,” Ludo nods, “I tried getting closer to the Elvenking’s halls, but the spiders cut me off.”

  
  


Bilbo takes in his appearance properly for the first time - his face is dirty and bruised, cobwebs tangled in his hair, and he’s sporting a nasty gash on his upper arm.

“Golly me,” he peeps, suddenly feeling quite faint and feeble, “are you alright?”

Ludo flashes him a weary smile.

“No worries. I did ‘em more damage than they did me. As for yer company,” he turns to Thorin, “I know it is no good, but they might actually be safer within the Elvenking’s halls now. The forest is getting more foul by the day.”

Thorin merely grumbles something under his breath, and Bilbo is the one who thanks Ludo for all his trouble.

  
  


“We must leave soon,” the King states later, when it’s gone utterly dark and Bilbo has shut the window, for the air seeping in was nothing short of freezing.

“May I remind you you’re still barely able to get up off this bed,” the hobbit points out calmly, “and I have no intention of dragging you through Mirkwood.”

“I’m perfectly aware of my condition,” Thorin hisses, “but I cannot sit idly by while the Elvenking-” the word always leaves his mouth sounding like the worst of curses, “has the rest of my company. Mahal knows what he’s doing with them.”

“I’m certain they’re fine,” Bilbo replies easily enough, but doesn’t add, _we don’t even know if he has them at all,_ because ironically enough, the hope of their friends, and family of course in Thorin’s case, being held by the elves, is their only solace in this wretched business.

The King doesn’t respond and simply glares out of the window as if he’s trying to win an argument against the night itself.

“We’ll find them, I’m sure,” Bilbo attempts to sound hopeful, “they’re alive, and we’ll find them.”

Then, at last, Thorin turns to look at him, and there is such sorrow in his eyes, such weariness all of a sudden, and Bilbo feels immensely guilty for having felt but a sliver of happiness in their current arrangement. Because Thorin _will_ get better, Bilbo can see it in his eyes, the fire, the gathering resolve, and before he knows it, they will be off and back into the world of terrible dangers and unexpected adventures...

  
  


He is a Baggins after all, he tells himself that night, cuddled deep and tight in his blankets against the coming winter. He likes his comfort and so surely, it is only natural that he would feel so pleasant at the Mill, in the everyday routine. And if he feels a bit sad that night, wishing for a warmth that no featherbed, no matter how soft, can provide, it’s certainly a natural reaction for a hobbit so far from home.

He tells himself that that is all there is to it, and for that one night, fortunately, he succeeds.

-

  
  


They set out early in the morning (or what might be morning, it really is rather hard to tell in Mirkwood), the twelve of them, accompanied by a ridiculous amount of elves. It is all indeed rather pompous, Fili thinks, fully armored warriors marching on each side of the line of dwarves. But he has to give it to them, they know their way around the forest perfectly - they are not following any clear path, and yet, it feels infinitely more... safe, and with aim, than the company’s previous journey alone.

The elves refuse to talk to them, of course (not that they’re trying that much for their part, but some common politeness isn’t entirely forgotten to the dwarves yet), and they refuse to provide them with any weapons out of some twisted sense of security, which is met with more than one incredulous grimace and protest. The trek is long and somewhat dull, and no one really feels like speaking. Then, finally, Tauriel stops everyone, fist raised in the air, and when she lowers it the elves disperse lightning-quick, delving into the greenery and disappearing completely before the dwarves even manage to take a proper look around.

“Very well then,” Tauriel, who is now the only one with them, speaks clearly, “listen very carefully. This is where the spiders’ territory begins. The cobwebs are thicker and often woven so that one wrong turn will send you right in and trap you in one. We only know of one entrance into the underground lair - we have very little idea of how widespread it is, and your goal today is to enter it and possibly explore it further.”

“We have _no weapons,_ ” Kili notes.

“You will be provided with them at the entrance to the lair.”

“I take it you and your _sentinels_ won’t be going in with us?” Balin notes, his tone frosty.

“No,” comes the simple answer.

“So basically you’re sending us into a large cave full of hungry spiders and shutting the door behind us,” Dwalin growls.

Tauriel glares at him, then sighs deeply.

“My men will be searching for another entrance above ground, your job is to do the same under it. Understood?”

Their response to that is a jumble of incomprehensible grumbling, and the elf sighs.

“You are of course free to run away, but I think experience has proven dwarves don’t fare very well alone in Mirkwood. Now, these are _ruvnaur_ -” she holds in her hands two sticks that look a bit like the firecrackers Fili vaguely remembers from their childhood, “when you’ve found another entrance and resurfaced, you will light them at this end and point them towards the treetops, and a great light will come out. We use them as a quick way to mark our exact spot in the forest, so that others might find us.”

“Yes, we call them _flares,_ ” Balin states calmly, to a great amusement of the company.

  
  


Tauriel’s eyes narrow, but she hands them, along with a sort of tinderbox, to Fili, who tucks it all into his boot, for a lack of a better place.

“Well, good then,” she retorts ironically, “the light will chase away the spiders momentarily, but I highly recommend not lighting them below ground.”

“We’ve been lighting them below ground for centuries,” Gloin supplies, and more laughter follows.

Tauriel groans.

“It certainly seems like you have an excellent handle on the situation, then,” she offers sardonically, “please, follow me.”

  
  


They follow her with much more zest than they had a moment ago, and as Kili by his side chatters with Ori, assuring him of dwarven fighting skills prevailing over spider venom, Fili takes his time to scrutinize their surroundings. They are marching uphill now, and the terrain turns from muddy undergrowth into patches of strange, dry grass, and rocky ravines. Not quite sure how to address the elf leading them, and refusing to call her anything more respectful than ‘hey, you’, he catches up with her, even though she presses on with impressive speed.

“Is there a mountain range in this forest?” he asks, and she looks at him as if she’s surprised he’s even there.

“...Yes,” is the reluctant answer he receives, “what of it?”

“And the lair you’re leading us to - I’m assuming it’s still vastly uncharted?”

“...Get to the point, dwarf.”

“Well,” Fili singsongs, “your problem is a rising number of spiders coming seemingly out of nowhere. Not that I know much about these beasts, but it seems to me like the underbelly of a mountain might be a rather comfortable place for an animal like that to build a lair.”

“And?” Tauriel spurs him on impatiently, but the interest is far too obvious in her voice.

“And, well, have you ever been under a mountain? The lair could be infinitely bigger than you can imagine.”

  
  


She stops abruptly, but doesn’t say another word until the rest of the company catch up with them, some of them already shooting Fili puzzled looks.

“Well, that is up to you to find out, then, dwarf,” the elf supplies, then encompasses with one movement of her arm the scenery behind her, “we go up this hill, we will probably encounter the spiders. I would ask you to be quiet, but I’m told it’s an impossible task for a dwarf. Ready yourselves.”

And indeed, as they make their way up, the ground under their boots dry and crumbling, pebbles rolling downhill dangerously loudly, all too familiar shadows dart at the edge of their vision, scurrying all around them. They stop to catch their breath and stick closer together, and before they know it, a muffled _whoosh_ echoes and a small lone spider falls to its death almost on top of them.

Tauriel lowers her bow and flashes them a bitter smile.

“I’m quite certain they can hear you breathing,” she says, and begins descending the hill with great swiftness.

A group of elves is waiting for them there, at the mouth of an ominously pitch black cave. They watch calmly as the dwarves gather, and at Tauriel’s command, supply them with a couple of torches, and to an ill-disguised relief of all of them, their own weapons, more or less in good shape – except for Kili's bow, which they claim they didn't manage to find, and have replaced with one of their own making, which its new owner weighs and scrutinizes with thinly veiled dismay.

“Good luck,” Tauriel offers simply, “remember, the spiders fear light, and especially fire. For your own sake, stay together.”

Then they disappear in a flash again, and the company swear at that quite fervently.

“Pointy-eared... twigs,” Dwalin hisses, checking Grasper and Keeper for any kind of damage.

“Should we... really go in?” Ori inquires shyly, “I mean, we do have the chance to just...”

“We might _have_ a chance, but we don't _stand_ a chance, lad,” Balin replies calmly, “go on, let’s light the torches.”

  
  


They manage that quite easily, even though the flame flickers and sputters in the heavy, damp air, and they enter, slowly, reluctantly, instinctively very close together. 

“We might never see the light of day again,” Kili professes theatrically and receives a few exasperated groans in response.

Fili elbows him in the side.

“We haven’t seen the light of day in _weeks,_ ” he reminds him, “let’s move.”

  
  


He marches at the front with Dwalin, who weighs his axes just like Fili does his blades (the relief that their weapons remained untouched is unspoken), and Balin, who carries his sword and a torch. The light isn’t plentiful, and they can’t see but a couple of steps ahead. There are cobwebs everywhere, dangling dangerously low over their heads, making the ground a sticky mess, and enveloping the occasional unfortunate deer in an unrecognizable bundle, glowing eerily as the torchlight falls upon it.

“The spiders must’ve noticed us coming in,” someone remarks, the sound of it echoing dully and suggesting the incredible span of the tunnel ahead of them, “how come they didn’t follow us?”

“They know better than us what we’re walking into, I reckon,” comes an ominous enough reply.

  
  


Soon enough, they reach a first crossroads, unscathed. The path splits into three different directions, two delving directly deeper into the lair, one going to the left at a more pleasant looking angle.

“Seems less used,” Fili notes about the latter, and they don’t need to speak any more, they simply reach a common decision to take it.

The tunnel begins narrowing, its walls less clearly defined, large sharp rocks and thick roots sticking out, and water dripping off its ceiling with uncanny regularity and volume. Eventually, they are forced to form a one-by-one line, with Dwalin at the front, slashing away the cobwebs. They don’t seem to catch fire at all - instead they begin sizzling and steaming, producing an odd smell.

The change in the air becomes gradually more apparent.

“A river?” someone suggests, and before they know it, they’re standing in it, the splashes and gasps far too loud.

After a proper amount of swearing, they still, and listen. The stream is utterly mellow, shallow, and flows almost soundlessly.

“We could follow it downstream,” Bofur suggests, “it must go above ground somewhere.”

It is a feeble hope, but the best option they have, and so they walk directly in the water, for the riverbed is too narrow, and try to reduce the collective noise they’re making to a minimum.

But they really seem to have struck lucky with their choice - there is no sign of spiders anywhere, and very little cobwebs where the river flows. The drop in temperature is sudden and immense, and Dwalin gasps and stops, too abruptly for some, and there is some bumping into each other, and more cursing, naturally.

“What is it?” Fili demands.

“A waterfall,” Dwalin responds tensely, “I can’t see much, but there must be a pretty large cave ahead.”

“Alright, let’s keep quiet. Any way down?”

“Follow me. But careful, everything is damn slippery.”

  
  


He leads them close by the wall, with just blackness and unknown depth to their right - every now and then someone kicks a pebble down, and they never hear it hit the bottom. They reach safer ground quite quickly, a sort of plateau.

“Can you smell that?” Nori remarks.

It is faint, but reminds Fili of... mold, and compost.

“Let’s scout ahead,” he decides, “Dwalin, Nori, take this tunnel to the right, me and Kili will go ahead and see if there’s a way into the cave.”

There’s a moment of breathless silence, but no one protests, to Fili’s relief. He beckons his brother, who grabs a torch, and they separate from the rest, the glow of their torches soon nothing but a hazy glow in the utter darkness.

“I had a dream about Thorin,” Kili utters when they’re safely out of earshot, and there’s a sort of nervous eagerness in his voice, as if he’s been waiting for the longest time to say it, but also something of the child who used to be scared of his Mother crying when they were little.

Fili wishes he could hold his hand, but his own are both full, so he grits his teeth, and opts for his kindest tone: “Really? What was it?”

“He died,” comes a simple answer that sends shivers up Fili’s spine, “there was that campsite we set up the night of the attack, and he was calling for us, but we were running away and couldn’t stop, and I... I kept looking back and then he just wasn’t there, and I _knew..._ ”

“Kili,” Fili stops him, gently, but clearly, tucking one of his blades behind his belt and grasping his brother’s shoulder, “he will be fine.”

“We don’t know that.”

His brother’s eyes are glistening in the torchlight, and Fili fights to swallow the sharp pain rising in his throat.

“No, we don’t,” he admits, and Kili looks at him at last, “but it’s the one thing we have to keep believing, because we’re giving up on him otherwise, and you know far too well how Uncle treats quitters.”

It’s a silly, childish thing to say, but surely enough, a brief ghost of a smile flashes over Kili’s features, and Fili embraces him.

“We’ll manage,” he mumbles into his brother’s hair, “and we’ll find Thorin in the end.”

“And Bilbo,” Kili reminds him.

“And Bilbo, too, of course,” Fili smiles, “now, come on, they’ll be wondering why we’ve stopped.”

  
  


The path they’re on begins winding and sloping down, and soon enough, it becomes apparent they’re descending into the cave on the side opposite to the wall they came through, the quiet murmur of the waterfall and the golden dots of the torches of the rest of the company to their left. After having walked on a sort of bridge by the wall for the longest time, they finally seem to have reached solid ground. Immediately a waft of wind surprises them from the right, suggesting a large tunnel, possibly leading out of the lair, but then they decide to walk closer to the waterfall, and all that is forgotten at the new sight.

“Are those... eggs?”

The pale orbs become almost completely translucent when light falls upon them, and already, tiny spider hatchlings are growing inside. Fili groans.

“Look, there’s more that way,” Kili remarks.

There is another path, descending at a steep angle, walls and ceiling and most of the floor covered in eggs.

“Well, we’re not going _that_ way,” Fili decides and when he looks up to check on the rest of the company he sees they’ve begun moving in their direction, torches like fireflies bobbing up and down and illuminating an imperceptible shred of the cave’s walls.

  
  


“Where there are younglings, there will be mothers,” Balin remarks when they’ve rejoined and everybody’s expressed their disgust at the sight.

“We should _really_ get out of here,” Dwalin seconds him, “that tunnel behind us looks hopeful.”

  
  


“This means you were right, lad,” Balin tells Fili quietly as they make their way there, infinitely more wary of any odd sounds, “this lair must be enormous.”

“The elves will be so happy,” Fili scoffs, but he is cut off by... a sound.

They freeze.

“What was that?”

“A scream?”

They listen, but the silence is almost deafening.

“Eyes!” Ori exclaims then, from the tail of the company, and they all swivel that way, “I saw eyes!”

“Let’s move,” Dwalin commands gruffly, not questioning the youngest dwarf for a second, and they start at a trot.

Soon, strong, fresh wind blows in their faces, and they speed up, when the sounds of combat ahead become unquestionable.

“The elves run into trouble?”

“It would explain why there were no spiders guarding the eggs.”

  
  


The fire of the torches grows stronger, and they take a turn or two, and suddenly, a dim glow marks the end of the tunnel, and there, quick, large shadows dart and jump, the unmistakable click and hiss of angered spiders echoing off the walls.

Fili and Dwalin exchange a curt look and a nod.  
“We’re going in!” Fili states clearly, “use the torches if you can.”

They charge in quite blindly, but the situation becomes frightfully clear in a matter of seconds - they run out onto a clearing among dead bodies, both spider and elven, and Tauriel stands alone there, fending off three beasts at once, and more are coming from the hills surrounding them.

“Light the flares!” Tauriel shouts.

They help her defeat the imminent danger, and then huddle in a close circle against the horde coming. Fili fumbles to light the flare with Kili’s torch, and manages so in just the right moment, the bright light blinding the nearest spiders and sending them into panicked retreat. But they shake off the shock quite quickly, and soon, the dwarves are reminded of their last encounter with them - but this time, they collectively seem to decide they won’t be taken so easily, and fight more ferociously, more careful about the spiders tackling them. Fili is preoccupied with defending Ori, and thus doesn’t notice his brother being outnumbered at first.

“Kili!”

But Tauriel jumps in, and the sight is a peculiar one, both archers side by side, their weapons and stances radically different, yet equally lethal - something foul stirs in Fili, but he has no time to pay attention to it. He is almost swept off his feet in the next second, and he finds himself facing two spiders alone, no one with a torch in sight. They are ferocious and clever, circling him, attacking from the rear and front at the same time, and he has a hard time with them, until Kili’s arrow slays one of them, allowing Fili to deal with the other.

“There are more!” Bofur shouts, and indeed, the trees and the greenery are swarming with them as far as they can see.

“Where are your men?!” Fili demands.

“They’re coming!” Tauriel retorts.

  
  


Fili is about to say some more, but lands on his back with a huff in the next second - the spiders have begun descending from the trees directly above them. He fumbles for his weapons while Gloin and Dori come to his rescue, but as soon as he scrambles to his feet, they have their hands full with more and more.

“This is endless!” Dwalin shouts, and then too many things happen at the same time - Tauriel exclaims as she is tackled by a number of spiders, and those are immediately slain by elven arrows - the reinforcements have come at last. But Fili is cut off from the company by the sheer mass of spider bodies, and he trips and falls again, and this time there’s no one to help him. His yell has an edge of desperation as he feels the familiar sticky mess of a web starting to bind his feet together.

“Kili!” he turns and wriggles on the ground, and catches a glimpse of his brother, fighting side by side with the elf. He groans, tears prickling in his eyes from the pain and sudden dull despair, and then he sees the torch. He kicks powerfully and manages to momentarily startle the spider, and he manages to get up into a crouch, slashing blindly and trying to make his way to the torch, flickering, but still burning. He manages to get a hold of it just in time, and drive it into the middle of the hairy mass pursuing him. The spider recoils and hisses, retreating hastily.

Fili scrambles to his feet, disposing of the webs as best he can, just in time to see the other beasts retreating into the cave and the forest, the elves chasing them away with fire and arrows and swords. The rest of the company seem to be unscathed, and Kili...

He doesn’t understand what his brother is doing at first, fumbling with a torch, but then he sees the elven captain on the ground, visibly defeated, and the last of the enemy approaching her, and before he can do anything, Kili manages to light the flare that Fili must have lost in the chaos, and a great boom echoes and shakes the treetops as he aims it at the spiders threatening Tauriel. They are killed instantly and set ablaze, which is enough for the rest to retreat completely, and soon, the forest grows quiet, save the groans of the dwarves, and the odd rustle and murmur of leaves.

The elves seem to be almost mesmerized as Kili helps Tauriel stand up - she gapes at him for a good long while, too, blood all over her leather chestplate and her shoulder twisted unnaturally, then dusts herself off and picks up her bow.

“Legolas?” she speaks intently, and one elf approaches her, “are you alright?”

  
  


They begin a conversation in their language among the dead bodies as if nothing happened, and at last, Fili approaches Kili, his hand patting his shoulder waking his brother from a sort of haze.

“Are you alright?”

“...Uh, yes, yes, I’m fine... I’m sorry, are you?” Kili comes to and Fili scrutinizes him, eyes narrowed.

“Well, I did call for your help once or twice.”

Finally, Kili seems to concentrate on him more, but that’s when the elves shuffle and gasp.

“Tauriel!” Legolas, the tall, lean one, exclaims, as the Captain collapses on the ground.

He scoops her up in his arms.

“Was she bitten?” he demands of the dwarves and upon receiving no clear answer, repeats, louder and more intent, “ _was she bitten?_ ”

“We only joined her after she’d been fighting for some time,” Fili speaks, “it’s possible, we don’t know.”

Legolas frowns and speaks a few words to the soldiers, then leaps into a run with Tauriel still in his arms. On of the remaining elves approaches the dwarves, who are all indeed quite exasperated already, and explains in an icily polite tone: “Our work here is done today. We are returning, please follow us.”

  
  


“...Do you think she will be alright?” Kili ponders as they hurry after the nimble figures.

“Who? ...The elf?” Fili retorts incredulously.

“Maybe they’re more susceptible to the spiders’ venom, or something...?”

Fili has to force himself not to stop and shake some sense into his brother.

“What does it _matter?_ ” he spits, and Kili opens his mouth to say more, but then swallows it and shakes his head.

“Right. It doesn’t.”

  
  


Fili decides to leave it at that and account the foul taste in his mouth to the whole damn forest with the elves on top - it’s much more productive than being displeased with his brother.

-

  
  


Thorin Oakenshield spends his waking hours frowning. This is probably a default state for him most of the time, Bilbo thinks, but the dull anger and mute despair, stemming from the inability to do absolutely anything about their current situation, are far too apparent in the shadows of his face. There are no news from the forest, and he becomes (even more) moody and sarcastic, his responses to Bilbo’s attempts at sparking a conversation curt and evasive.

Ludo observes this, and is seen the next day in his wife’s garden, carefully selecting a number of herbs. That evening he invites Bilbo to watch as he pours boiling water over some of them, mashes the others together, adds a variety of spices and peculiar powders from tiny glass vials he procures from who knows where, and boils it all until the kitchen fills with a dizzyingly strong smell.

“Should speed up the healing,” the man explains as the contents of a large copper pot begin to bind, large bubbles popping with a moist _plop._

“Forgive me, but... where did you learn all this?” Bilbo inquires, the fumes making his head spin, and gestures over Ludo’s working space, a charming mess of oddly coloured dried berries and leaves, a mortar and pestle, and a set of sharp knives of different sizes.

The lumberjack merely smiles.

“It’s common knowledge where I come from,” he replies.

“And... where do you come from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Ludo sighs, and smiles at him.

“I don’t mind,” he says gently, “but trust me, Little master, you don’t mind not knowin’.”

  
  


A silence, somewhat wary on Bilbo’s side, follows, and isn’t broken again until after Ludo’s extinguished the flame under the pot and filled a can with the mysterious remedy.

“Now, this needs to cool down a bit, an’ then we have tae apply it twice a day for at least a week, then tone it down to once. If we do this properly, it should improve Thorin’s state really quickly, but it will be up t’ us tae keep him from runnin’ around and pullin’ his stitches. The body still needs its rest. When we’re gone, I suggest-”

“Wait, wait, hold on, gone? Gone where? Where... where are you going?” Bilbo stutters, and Ludo laughs wholeheartedly.

“Ach, worry not! Business calls from Esgaroth, and under the usual circumstances, only one of us would go, but me and me wife think it’s the perfect opportunity tae ask a little something of ye in return.”

Bilbo’s brows furrow in confusion, and Ludo laughs again, patting him on the shoulder earnestly, which almost causes the hobbit to fall off his stool.

“Just that you would tend to the house, for no more than a week!” Ludo explains with a great grin, “we’ll be leaving in a fortnight, and the mill will be done for the winter by then, and we’ll be takin’ the horse and some of the chickens with us, so really, it won’t be much work at all! You’d just need to feed the rest of the animals, and maybe pick the apples if they’re ready. I think you could manage that, eh?”

“Oh...” Bilbo exhales slowly, rather relieved, “oh, of course! That’s no trouble at all, I should think!”

“It’s settled then,” Ludo grins, “now, let’s see how your King likes his new medicine. And, if we’re lucky, there might be news of your company in the city - every now and then, the occasional Mirkwood survivor finds his way there!”

Bilbo thanks him very sincerely, but ‘Mirkwood survivor’ certainly sends a shiver up his spine.

  
  


The prospect seems to outright excite Thorin, though, and he praises Ludo very earnestly. Bilbo finally sees a spark of life in his eyes again that evening, and watches it grow into a fire the next morning - the remedy really is incredibly strong, and a still sleepy Bilbo is greeted by Thorin sitting in his bed, propped up by numerous pillows, breakfasting on about a month’s worth of food. He even smiles when he sees the hobbit at the door, and motions him to come in. They chat easily enough, Bilbo for once not protesting as Thorin plans their way through Mirkwood and to the Elvenking’s palace, the supposed location of their company. Before they know it, it’s time for lunch, and they share it in the room as well, Matylda merely smiling warmly as Bilbo rushes into the kitchen to get it.

Afterwards, exhausted, Thorin lays down, looking just about ready to sleep for another day or two, and yet, he doesn’t seem to want to close his eyes as Bilbo scurries around the bed, adjusting this and removing that, gathering the dishes and opening the window.

“I must admit, you exceed my expectations,” he speaks very quietly, just when Bilbo’s back is turned, and the hobbit ignores his heart skipping a beat, and turns to look at him with his best calmly attentive face.

“...R-really? How is that?”

The King flashes him a kind smile, though it is tainted with weariness and a great deal of pain, Bilbo sees.

“You stayed,” Thorin states simply, “though you had no reason to.”

“...No reason to?” Bilbo can’t help but laugh. 

“...You could have left me here, for all I know,” Thorin responds somewhat gruffly.

“And why on earth would I do that?” the hobbit wonders.

The dwarf measures him wordlessly for a long moment after that.

“Well... I was under the impression that this quest was... quite an unpleasant undertaking for you.”

  
  


Bilbo gapes at him for a bit, then gazes out of the window, then back at Thorin, quite clueless as of how to respond to that. Finally, he smiles, because he remembers his mother all of a sudden. _Silver linings,_ she would say, _can blind you if you’re not looking for them._

“It has its moments,” he replies at last, and the giddiness he feels when Thorin rewards that with a smirk and a nod, is certainly entirely excusable.

  
  


He comes back to his bedside in the evening to help Ludo tend to the wounds, and lingers afterward, sinking into the armchair with a book. However, he soon sets the volume aside and finds himself desiring to simply watch the rise and fall of Thorin’s chest. It’s steadier now, fortunately, and his cheeks are a healthier color as well, and Bilbo doesn’t think they’ll ever be able to repay their saviors, or thank them enough. In a fit of gratitude, Thorin did mention sending a small chest of jewels after they’ve reclaimed Erebor, but that was out of politeness more than anything... Bilbo thinks about it, Erebor, and the map, nothing more than a miserable-looking piece of paper on the end table by the King’s bed, and the key Gandalf gave him on top of it, and thinks it all rather ridiculous now, the quest almost impossible to envision - even though they’re closer now than they’ve ever been, at least as distance goes.

He spares a thought for the company and their fate, refusing to wallow in pity and instead hoping that they’re making progress of their own. It is not in his, or any hobbit’s, nature to despair, which is why he manages to convince himself that things could indeed be much, much worse. The King sighs deeply in his sleep, his features serene, less wrinkles around his eyes, and past the bruises and the streaks of grey in his hair, he looks almost young. Suddenly, Bilbo very much wishes to hear all about his plight, about Erebor and its depths and wealth before the dragon came, and then their life in Ered Luin, of which all the dwarves have refused to speak much at all.

He knows he could never understand the suffering Thorin’s folk have gone through, but he is very fond of stories, very fond indeed, and this seems like a particularly lovely, if sad, one. But ultimately, he senses Thorin’s outlook on life and his own differ so radically, it might actually be insulting to the King were Bilbo to confess that he finds his history enthralling and even exciting in some way. He’s quite certain Thorin Oakenshield has no sense of ‘beautifully tragic’.

  
  


As it turns out right next day, he lacks in common sense, and the understanding of the words ‘you need to be patient and move around as little as possible, or you’ll pull your stitches and bleed to death’, as well. Bilbo finds him wandering about when he stumbles out of his bedroom in the morning, the sight of him in a long linen shirt, hunched over, and hair ruined by the prolonged stay in bed almost scaring the life out of him. They bicker at the top of the stairs until Tylda comes, confused by all the ruckus. By then, blood has already started tinting the front of the King’s shirt, so he lets Bilbo steer him to the toilet and back to bed without much ado.

“You will do yourself, or anyone else, no good by rushing this,” the hobbit reminds him calmly, checking and adjusting the bandages in what has become almost a routine.

Thorin merely grumbles something akin to ‘waiting is for elves’ and nods curtly when Bilbo asks him if he’d like eggs for breakfast.

The rest of the day is spent rather pleasantly, with Matylda filling him in on some of the workings of the household. A fortnight seems like such a long time, and as the dwarves’ quest goes, it is invaluable, but Bilbo has started accepting that Durin’s Day will most likely be spent in this household, rather than on the road, or even at the foot of the Lonely Mountain. He dares not discuss it with Thorin, though, and the dwarf himself hasn’t really said a word about it directly. It’s almost as if all time has stopped during their stay at Harrow Mill - or, they would both certainly like to think so.

  
  


In the evening, they gather sorrel into large wicker baskets in a meadow with a tall chestnut tree, and Mirkwood spreads below them like a sea of tar. Bilbo is going on about the festival celebrating the end of summer that is surely happening at the Shire at this very moment, when Tylda stills, straightens up and shades her eyes with her hand.

“What is it?”

“Oh, it’s Ludo coming back,” she smiles, “see?”

The figure is tiny by the hut at the very edge of the forest, and squinting against the bright orange shine of the setting sun, Bilbo watches him undress the horse and move about.

“Say, would you be a dear and pick a little more, while I go ahead and start making dinner?” Tylda pleads, and Bilbo agrees eagerly.

She hurries away and it is long before Bilbo looks up again. When he is finished, he takes a moment to sit in the grass and inhale the fresh air. The sunset colors the sky in bright pinks and purples, almost ethereal, and that’s why the hobbit doesn’t realize what he’s seeing at first. Ludo is now heading home, the horse by his side, and he stops before the bridge and fumbles with something in his hands. It turns out to be a bird, probably a messenger, that Ludo sets free, and it darts up with impressive speed, rising high and then following the line of the forest to the left until it disappears completely into the prolonging shadows.

  
  


Bilbo forgets all about it until after they’ve finished dinner and tended to Thorin. He sits with them by the fireplace, stomach still full of the delicious baked potatoes, and listens to them planning the trip to Esgaroth.

“That reminds me,” Matylda says, writing down a sort of shopping list, “did you remember to send the raven to Yanna? She is Ludo’s cousin in Esgaroth, who will house us,” she turns to explain to Bilbo.

“Oh, blast it,” Ludo groans, “I forgot. I’ll do it first thing in the mornin’.”

“Fair enough,” his wife replies.

“But...” Bilbo mutters, and then something stops him from finishing that sentence, whether it is both his companions growing silent and turning their attention to him, or the sudden strange feeling in his gut, a vague warning, he does not know.

“But...?” Ludo inquires, and Bilbo thinks he can see a ghost of a different emotion flash over his round, attentive face.

He smiles and shakes his head, puffing on his pipe.

“Oh, nothing, nothing. I’m simply wondering... Esgaroth is to the east, correct?”

“That’s right,” Matylda replies, never looking up from her scribbling, “in two or three miles, the Forest Road joins the Great Eastern Road, and that leads you right to the banks of the Long Lake.”

“When you and your dwarf set out one day, you will find it’s quite a pleasant journey. And relatively safe, too,” Ludo adds.

  
  


Bilbo pretends he doesn’t see the look he and Matylda exchange, and goes to sleep that night painting in his mind the mental image of the map of Middle Earth as he remembers it from the books back home, trying to remember what he knows about messenger birds (very little), and cursing his wandering mind for seeing danger where there possibly can’t be any.

  
  


-

  
  


Upon their return to the Elvenking’s halls, the dwarves demand food and drink first, and a bath later. They are informed by Legolas, _the Prince,_ as his guards announce him, that Thranduil will be speaking with them in the morning. After having spent what feels like a lifetime in the elven hot springs, deriving some satisfaction from the hardly subtle, disgusted grimaces of their watchers, they are left blissfully alone, and dedicate the time to complaining about the kinks in their back, or the fighting techniques of the elves, or anything that puts them in a better mood, really.

  
  


That night, Kili cannot sleep, and he slips out of his bed almost soundlessly, so as not to disturb the gentle snoring of the rest of the company, and Fili only notices his presence when he turns over and he’s sitting there, a small, hunched figure, his back turned to him. He lays his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and lets his fingers slip into his hair, and it is long before any words are spoken.

“...Are you angry with me?” Kili mutters eventually.

Fili exhales, and tugs at Kili’s hair gently, so as to make his brother look at him.

“No,” he whispers, “but I was a bit surprised to see you fight side by side with that elf so eagerly.”

Kili looks up at him, eyes glinting in the dull blue glow coming in through the small windows, and Fili is relieved to see a small smile on his face.

“Were you jealous?” Kili teases, and Fili’s grip in his hair tightens marginally, but then he relaxes.

“Of her? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“She does know how to handle a bow.”

“Don’t push your luck, now,” Fili uses a mock-threatening tone, and Kili chuckles, his hand sliding to grip his brother’s forearm.

Long silence follows, but Fili knows far too well there are still words left unsaid. He shifts and shuffles, and wordlessly, Kili climbs into his bed, laying somewhat stiffly at first, then relaxing as Fili’s hand finds his own.

“...That dream I told you about,” he breathes out, and Fili stills.

“Yes?”

“I... I didn’t have it just that one time.”

Fili cannot quite suppress the ragged, exasperated sigh, and he brings Kili closer, burrowing his cheek in his hair, and soothing his arm.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Kili _mhm_ ’s and cuddles closer to him, back curved and hands clasped together like a child. 

As he listens to his brother’s breathing still and even out, Fili wishes he were able to dream of Thorin. In a way, he needs reminding, because Mahal knows he has lost all sense of direction. He doesn’t let it show in front of the others, and he certainly doesn’t mean to let it stop him from doing what must be done, but he feels... aimless. Under usual circumstances, it would take a great many years before he would be ready to take on his Uncle and King’s responsibilities, and these past few days have made him understand very well why. But if there’s one thing Thorin has always been very clear about, it was to never show weakness in the face of great adversity, and that, Fili believes he can manage yet, even if his only reason to do so isn’t very noble at all. He will fight to free his kin, and he will struggle and do his best to get them back on the road to Erebor, because that is what Uncle would have wanted, and that is what will truly matter to him when they are reunited (any other options have been voted unacceptable wordlessly, but definitively), but ultimately, his sole concern is - as it has been since they were little and slept alone through the night with their mother gone, dealing with the aftermath of their father’s death - to make his brother’s nightmares go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we go. The pacing of this one was a bit different, as you might have noticed. What did you think about Thranduil, and the elves in general? I definitely plan on expanding their part in the story, and I hope I didn't make any of them look too... one-sided. ...What did you think of Tylda and Ludo?  
> I can't believe I wrote over 14k, and it's still such a slow burn :D We'll get there, wherever you're hoping 'there' is, eventually, I promise :D  
> Also, I'm leaving on Friday for a vacation in Italy for two weeks, so another update will not be until after the 13th of July. But I'll have lots of time to write, so there :)


	3. When Push Comes To Shove

Let it be known that the Bagginses never were the ones for consoling, or for dealing with any sort of matters of the more... emotional nature, so to speak. Bilbo’s father probably never would have acted on his feelings towards Bilbo’s mother, were it not for the hardly gentle interference of old Took himself. Belladona knew quite surely that she and Bungo were going to spend the rest of their lives together, and simply coaxed him into realizing the same. Bilbo has always loved the story, and his mother and his various aunts would tell it with great enjoyment – Belladona brought emotion to the family; a different, subtler sort of wit. Bungo was excellent with numbers and old books and brands of pipe weed, but it was Belladona who knew how to avert a family crisis that threatened to stem from simply seating the wrong cousin next to the wrong grandfather at an anniversary dinner, or to haggle until their neighbors relented, sold them their share of the meadow over the Hill, and even added an extra mileage of pastures.

Bilbo has always liked to think he turned out more like her – the recent events at least have proven that he did indeed inherit a knack for handling the unexpected. But when it comes to doing something about a dwarf King’s resolve slowly crumbling before his eyes, he suddenly finds he is quite out of his depth. Thorin is getting better physically, but he hasn’t spoken one word of his lost company, and these days, Bilbo usually finds him gazing out of the window somewhat listlessly, refusing to talk much more past describing his pain for Ludo to get a better idea of the healing process.

A fortnight passes far too quickly for Bilbo’s liking, and one morning he stands at the gate to Harrow Mill, seeing off Matylda and Ludo, their carriage overflowing with various boxes and sacks and wicker cages for the chickens, and he waves and waves until they appear but a small dot in the meadows ahead.

Then, out of the blue, he feels very small and feeble, his feet patting on the large tiles in the kitchen the only sound in the suddenly all-too massive house.

 _Make the best out of having a household to yourself,_ his father would always say, but in his case, Bilbo suspects, it was meant to describe the peace he would get out of his wife running errands. He starts humming a simple tune to chase away the unease, gathers fresh bandages and breakfast for Thorin, and makes his way to the King’s bedroom.

He finds the dwarf awake, but once again somberly looking out of the window, his back turned to Bilbo. The hobbit announces himself, and he simply huffs in acknowledgment, but doesn’t look at him. He eats his breakfast silently as Bilbo prepares the healing salve and everything else, and when he looks up, he finds Thorin watching him, weariness and age-old sadness pronounced in his face once again. Bilbo stops himself from sighing deeply and desperately, and instead raises his eyebrows in a mute question, and the King nods, shifting so that Bilbo can start removing the old bandages.

Bilbo goes on about the work gently, not daring to utter a word, sensing the tension, and Thorin’s eyes remain closed throughout.

  


“...Durin’s Day is coming,” the dwarf exhales eventually, just as Bilbo is finishing up, and when he braves looking up and into Thorin’s eyes, he finds them so desperately sorrowful, he wishes with inexplicable passion for a way to rid them of it, and now.

“...There is always next year,” he remarks carefully.

Thorin sighs, deep and ragged.

“...This quest was meant to restore our homeland _for_ someone, and now that there is... no one left, I do believe it all to be rather meaningless.”

“You’re joking!” Bilbo spits out before he can stop himself, but surely enough, Thorin is looking away again, paying no mind to him, and a queer anger inflates the hobbit’s chest.

“Please don’t say that,” he says steadfastly, “I don’t believe their lost to us, I really don’t!”

“How, I wonder?” Thorin murmurs, and his desperate demeanor is quickly becoming infuriating to Bilbo, “how do you retain so much blind faith?”

“Because I _want to!_ ” Bilbo snaps, surprising both of them with the fervor of it, “I choose to believe they’re alright, because as far as I’m concerned, hope dies last, and you might find that a silly proverb, but it has proven right in the past, don’t you think? Good _grief,_ what would the others think if they knew their King was all but willing to give up on them? I can only imagine what Balin would have to say of this! Or Fili and Kili!”

Thorin growls something in his native language, but Bilbo ignores him.

“I did not come on this quest with you for you to give up halfway! And you know what? I think... I think that if you lose your resolve now, you might as well be forsaking your kingdom all over again!”

  


There is something ferocious in the glint of Thorin’s eyes, his chest heaving, and the Tookish part of Bilbo recedes as quickly as it came, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

“...I’m sorry,” he mutters, feeling quite weak all of a sudden, “I didn’t mean to... Forgive me.”

“No,” he is surprised to hear the King respond gruffly, “you speak of things you do not understand, but I appreciate your... courage. I stand corrected by you.”

He senses the dullness in the King’s voice far too well, though – something is wrong, and Thorin’s features are stern, eyes icy.

“I hope... I hope I didn’t insult you,” he mumbles feebly.

“You did nothing of the sort,” the dwarf replies curtly, “but if you don’t mind, I should like to sleep some more now.”

“Oh,” Bilbo exhales, “I, uh... yes, of course, naturally. ...I’ll, I’ll bring you lunch later, then.”

Thorin dismisses him with a small nod, shuffling and turning away from him, and Bilbo trots out of the room utterly miffed and very distinctively feeling like the villain in the whole situation.

  


He thinks of what his mother would say, as he washes the dishes and prepares the kitchen for cooking, and somehow, he knows not why, he thinks she would just laugh endlessly.

-

  


The elves’ gratitude is one thing Fili had never dreamt of encountering. They don’t show it outright, mind you – in fact, the Elvenking tries his very best to appear elegantly aloof as he listens to the dwarves’ accounts of their explorations in the spider caves, but it’s Legolas, Thranduil’s heir, who finds them later and makes it clear just how much their services were needed.

“We think we can use the entrance you discovered to make our advances,” he says, looking rather strange standing alone among the company, who are mostly seated and feasting on lunch, “if what you say is true and there are eggs and hatchlings hidden inside, it will be fiercely guarded, but we will set up scouting parties to chart the surroundings.”

Needless to say, none of the dwarves are paying much attention – as far as they’re concerned, the business is a nasty one altogether, and if they can leave the elves to their own makings, then they will do so without so much as a squint.

“What will you require of us?” Balin asks politely, if coolly.

“We would like some of you to accompany us when we venture inside the lair again, and help us get a better idea of its general layout. My father will not say so, but all sense of direction is quickly lost to us underground.”

This is rewarded with many a bitter laugh and chortle.

“Aren’t you also sensitive to spider venom?” Kili inquires, and everybody, including Legolas, gapes at him in mute confusion for a split second, before he adds, “your Captain. She was bitten, wasn’t she? How is she?”

“Oh,” Legolas says, “oh, yes, Tauriel. She did ask me to convey her gratitude...-”

“Unless I managed to do so in person.”

  


The Captain descends the staircase to the room somewhat stiffly, but she looks perfectly fine otherwise, and Fili rolls his eyes quite inadvertently as Kili springs to his feet. Wordlessly, Tauriel approaches him and extends her hand, and he shakes it after a moment’s hesitation, shooting looks back at his brother and the rest of the company, who eye the whole thing highly conspicuously.

“Thank you,” Tauriel says, “you saved my life. All of you,” she turns to the rest of them, a surprisingly kind look on her face, “many of our best warriors fell, but it was a victory nonetheless.”

  


A somewhat awkward silence stretches between the two sides, as neither of them is used to such civil behavior from the other. The dwarves exchange pointed looks, and Legolas utters something in his language, at which Tauriel’s lips quirk in a quick smile.

“Very well then,” she declares at last, “we would like two of you to accompany us for a short scouting trip.”

Fili knows even before he looks that Kili is already opening his mouth, and so he says clearly, to spare him the embarrassment and the exasperation of the others: “Me and my brother will go.”

Tauriel nods, and as Fili follows the elves and a far too obviously cheerful Kili up the stairs, he looks back only to catch Balin’s gaze, which states one single thing very clearly: _be careful._

He nods at them all encouragingly. _After all_ , he thinks, not without a great deal of irony, _what could possibly go wrong?_

_-_

  


Bilbo soon comes to the realization that there is very little to do around the house on his own, which just might be the worst possible situation for a hobbit to find himself in. An unease begins to weigh on his shoulders once again, a nagging feeling of intangible danger, and no matter what he does he can’t seem to be able to chase it away.

Thorin is asleep, or at least appears to be, when he brings up a steaming bowl of soup, and he has no interest in rousing him after their previous encounter anyhow. He spends the afternoon wandering about, smoking his pipe, stopping in the most peculiar places, and altogether quite incapable of enjoying the calm, even though the day is nice enough, warm and sunny, the cold spike of winter not yet apparent in the air.

He stands on the edge of the hill over Mirkwood for the longest time, thumbs hooked in his suspenders, eyes gliding over the endless black until they begin to deceive him, catching a glint of color here and there, just like a head popping over the treetops, perhaps someone else climbing a tree just like he once did... It seems so, so long ago since they were wishing for but a sliver of light in the suffocating silence of the forest, and he doesn’t miss it one bit, but still... Realizing he meant every word he said to Thorin worries him to no end – even wishing to be back home in the Shire comes as nothing more than a dull ache now, something that will perhaps be achieved _after_ his business with the dwarves is done, however that will turn out. He chuckles softly when he thinks of Bilbo Baggins of some... what? Three months ago? Unwilling to even invite a wizard in for tea, completely oblivious to all the trouble he would soon get himself into. Oh, and the wizard – he certainly has a bone to pick with him. He finds it easiest to blame Gandalf for making him into this... this _adventurer_ , and is sure life would be infinitely more peaceful and less dangerous had they never met.

But he no longer knows if that prospect makes him anything more than ironically amused with the workings of fate.

His fingers flip the ring in his vest pocket over and over – he hasn’t slipped it on once, mentioned it or cared for it much for that matter, since they came to Harrow Mill, and the shape and surface of it now feels foreign somehow.

  


...It is almost relieving when hunger announces itself, because that is one thing Bilbo Baggins is excellent at handling. Rummaging through the pantry, he finds it unacceptably empty, and decides to bake. He is pleased to find all the ingredients for a simple mince pie, and soon the kitchen fills with the crackling of fire and the fresh smell of flour and eggs. After he slides the pie into the oven, warmth comes quickly into the room, and he lights his pipe once again, feeling accomplished.

Waiting for the meal to finish, he inspects the contents of the numerous shelves – there are glass jars full of dried herbs, and cookbooks he will have to pay more attention to sometime, and beautiful dishes, wooden bowls and pitchers carven and painted with breathtaking delicacy and attention to detail. He opens a small cupboard behind a grocery shelf, tucked away so that only hobbit hands can reach it safely, and immediately realizes he’s somewhere he shouldn’t be – there are important looking documents and old letters piled in there, weighed down by a small sack, that, by no fault of Bilbo’s, ends up being weighed and discovered to be containing no small amounts of money.

He is just about to shut the cupboard, when he notices a small crest or a sigil scribbled somewhat hastily in the corner of a dirty paper, but before he can remember why it looks so familiar, he hears a heavy huff from the doorway, and he almost bangs his head on the shelf as he turns to look. His heart flutters in his chest at the sight of Thorin, who stands hunched over on the doorstep.

“You should be resting!” Bilbo exclaims harshly, and for a moment, the dwarf seems to be at a loss for words, his gaze dropping almost apologetically.

  


“...I smelled food,” he sighs finally.

Bilbo can’t quite help it, his lips curl into a fleeting smile. But he watches sternly as Thorin sits down at the table, not without some trouble, and only relents when the King shoots about a tenth quietly distressed look towards the half-opened window.

“Oh, are you cold?” he teases mercilessly as he goes to close it, and sighs when he receives no answer, hurrying to the room next door and bringing with him a thick woven blanket that he gives to Thorin to wrap around his shoulders. Thorin doesn’t protest, simply asks quietly for something to drink, and Bilbo thinks he can let him steep in his solemn mood for a little while longer.

“I’m making mince pie,” he announces, sitting across from Thorin and watching him sip his tea, “I was going to bring you some upstairs, but instead you decided to risk pulling your stitches, _again..._ ”

Thorin groans, but an entirely unexpected smile spreads over his face afterward.

“I have no patience for your nature, Bilbo Baggins,” he states, but there is no ill will in his tone whatsoever, “and I think it serves us both well that you have no patience for mine.”

Bilbo raises his eyebrows and _pfft_ ’s incredulously.

“You are horrible at compliments,” he notes, and the King chuckles shortly.

“And you don’t much excel at tactful advice,” he retorts.

“Excuse me, I was never aiming for it to be tactful!”

  


Thorin’s genuine laughter, even though it ends in a pained groan, is the most surprisingly beautiful sound he’s heard in some time, and Bilbo grins absolutely unwillingly. _And oh, sweet dear Mother_ , he thinks as time flies by, and they chat lightly and eat the (naturally) delicious pie and altogether spend what could be described as a shockingly pleasant evening, _if you could only see me now._

And then, not without a pang of horror, _I’m more of a Took than I ever was, and anyone who thinks that isn’t terrifying has never met a Took before._

-

  


The last time Fili was jealous, to his knowledge, was when they were about thirty and their Mother had an inexplicable fit of fear for her sons’ collective futures, and thus started searching for acceptable brides. It was a ridiculous predicament on its own, and Fili remembers resenting her for it, but to his brother, it was all just one big joke, which would all be fine and merry if he didn’t start having so much fun with the lass Mother picked for him. Fili spent the longest time trying to make them see each other as little as possible, and when he finally admitted his feelings about the whole thing to Kili, making very little sense and using all the wrong words, his brother burst into laughter and kissed him on the nose to shut him up.

It all worked out perfectly then, but he doubts their current situation would play out well if he were to complain about anything at all, least of all Kili expressing a far too intense interest in an elf. He tells himself that over and over again as Kili marches side by side with Tauriel, apparently discussing the differences between elven and dwarven arrow tips, or something similarly exciting. For his own sake, he decides to ignore them, and instead tries to scrutinize their surroundings and get at least a vague idea of where they are. The halls of the Elvenking are buried deep within an intricate maze of tall trees and rock formations, large and looming, but all it takes is one turn, and Fili is certain he would never find his way back there. Once again, they are walking no discernible path, simply just making their way on the tops of ravines and through narrow and dark valleys, and he doesn’t understand how keeping a sense of direction under ground can be a challenge for elves, if they’re capable of dealing with _this_.

  


Just then, Legolas, who has been darting in and out of sight, shows up on the road ahead, and they stop abruptly.

“Everything alright?” Tauriel demands.

“I just spotted the spiders making their way to the north.”

“To the river?”

“Most probably. Another group seemed to be circling back there from the east.”

“...That’s odd.”

“I know. If we’re lucky, we might trace them to another entrance.”

“Hey,” Fili interrupts their swift exchange, and they regard him as if they’ve all but forgotten he’s there.

“...Right,” Tauriel says, “we’ll split up, circle from both sides and meet by the river. Search for any sign of an entrance, but let’s not go in unless it’s absolutely inevitable.”

Kili blinks at Fili and joins Tauriel before he can so much as protest, and he feels a very strange concoction of fear, desperation and exasperation as he watches them delve into the shadows side by side.

“Come,” Legolas spurs him on, and soon, all else is forgotten in the struggle to match the elven prince’s tempo.

  


He lets Legolas lead him blindly, he has no other choice. The undergrowth becomes hardly bearable for someone of dwarvish height, and the elf only slows down out of courtesy when he can probably take the continuous stream of grunting and cursing no more.

“A forest is no place for a dwarf,” Legolas remarks lightly, and simply raises an eyebrow when Fili growls at him.

“I grew up in a forest,” he retorts, “I like forests. But this one... it’s foul.”

The elf frowns.

“It wasn’t always like this,” he declares, “we called it Greenwood once, and it was full of light and color and life.”

Fili tries his very best not to lose one or both boots in the swamp they’re currently making their way through, and scoffs at the elf’s ability to seemingly just float over the terrain, whatever it is.

“What happened, then?” he asks, only half-interested, but Legolas seems to want to offer an earnest answer.

“A dark force has found its way into the land,” he proclaims almost as if reading from a storybook, “the forest has always been too large for us to keep all of it in check, and we were... overrun. Forced to retreat and concentrate all our forces on maintaining the territory around our Halls. ...Father tells me your kin lived in exile. Surely you understand what it is to want to reclaim your land and be incapable of it.”

“Not really,” Fili replies, not exactly gently, “it’s true, our land was taken from us, but we went and tried to fight for it- well, a different piece of it, but the point is, we fought to reclaim it. You could have done the same.”

“I told you already, dwarf, our forces weren’t enough!”

  


Fili glares up at him and his ridiculously delicate features frozen in dismay. _Yes, your forces weren’t enough,_ he thinks, _but you have halls overflowing with soldiers_ _–_ _good soldiers, too, as much as I hate to admit it_ _–_ _and you know every leaf and rock in this forest like the back of your own hand._

Not that he’s planning to take any further interest in this, but it seems to him like someone’s a bit too comfortable in their current situation to do anything about it. In a sudden flash, he remembers the numerous councils held at Ered Luin after Thorin’s announcement of his quest, and how every pampered member would complain about ‘unnecessary danger’ and ‘a fool’s errand’. He learned then that it was apparently easier and more pleasant to simply ignore an opportunity that brought along with it some discomfort, than to just up and grab it by its tail and shake it until it gave.

The Line of Durin aren’t quitters, that he has been taught since infancy, and they have little patience for ones. Fili just hopes Kili won’t fail to remember that when push comes to shove.

  


“There,” Legolas interrupts his train of thought, “stay down.”

The beasts are in the trees ahead, almost still, weaving webs, and they haven’t noticed them yet. Fortunately, they’re downwind from them and so they can approach them more or less safely.

“We need them to lead us to their lair,” Legolas whispers, and, without further ado, draws his bow and fires one arrow that flies soundlessly ahead until it hits a faraway tree.

“Your aim isn’t very impressive,” Fili hisses.

“Silence.”

The spiders jump and jerk at the sound, and after some hesitation, climb down from the trees and to the source of it.

“Once they find the arrow, they will start retreating,” Legolas explains, “come.”

  


They tail the spiders from a safe distance until the terrain begins sloping, and the beasts disappear in a passage in between two large rocks.

“Well? Do we follow them?” Fili insists, but Legolas raises his hand.

“Hold on.”

He falls silent then, his eyes distant, and at last he pulls a paper – a map – from behind his chest plate, his brows furrowing deeply.

“If the lair can be entered from here, then they’ve advanced much more than we anticipated.”

“We told you,” Fili states impatiently, all but ready to go back and see how Kili is doing, “the lair is probably much bigger than you think.”

Legolas nods, still frowning, and then procures a torch from Mahal knows where, lighting it.

“Let’s go.”

Fili groans.

“Shouldn’t we just... mark this place, and report back?”

The elf grants him a short, curt look and a smirk that speaks volumes of the recklessness that is about to come.

“No.”

-

  


Thorin becomes restless. Bilbo has to give his all to convince him not to just run out of the Mill and back into the forest. He often leaves his bed in the afternoon to sit at the back porch, watching the sunset, and regularly falls asleep there, and the journey back to his bedroom in the middle of the night always makes both of them infinitely irritated.

Bilbo returns from the orchard one day, his basket heavy with ripe apples, and trots up to Thorin’s room with a light snack, but finds it deserted yet again. He sighs, grabbing some of the delicious fruit as he makes his way through the kitchen to the back porch, but freezes when Thorin’s usual sitting place there is empty also.

His heart making a fluttering leap he resents himself for a little bit, he goes back into the house.

“Thorin?” he calls, “are you, erm... alright?”

No response, and Bilbo drums his fingers on his cheek uselessly for a moment.

“You silly old... dwarven... damn it!” he groans, and hurries out of the house, into the courtyard, calling the King’s name over and over, and the utter silence of the afternoon weighs heavy on him, his nervousness rising against his will.

He tries not to think about Thorin just up and leaving, and that’s why he first runs to the mill and the orchard he just came back from, even though he knows he will not find him there. He circles back by the pastures and returns to the house from behind, and finally, he sees him.

A small figure sits on the very edge of the hill, slumped in the tall golden grass, a large fur slung over his shoulders, and Bilbo’s feet speed up and he marches in front of him, beginning to fume in an inexplicable rage, which simply deepens further as the dwarf seems to barely register his presence.

“What _on earth_ are you doing?” he demands.

Slowly, Thorin peels his gaze off the vastness of Mirkwood below them, and looks up at the hobbit solemnly.

“I needed fresh air,” he replies simply, his voice hoarse.

“Fresh air – are you _joking?_ ” Bilbo sputters ferociously, “you had me scared out of my wits! You can’t just _take a walk_ for _fresh air_ atany odd time you like, not in your state!”

“I wish you didn’t worry yourself on my account,” Thorin responds gruffly, his head hung low.

“Well, it’s just too damn _late_ for that, wouldn’t you agree?” the hobbit exclaims, and a shadow ghosts over Thorin’s face as he looks up at him.

“You...” he sighs, and they proceed to glare at each other for quite some time until Bilbo gives up and sinks into the grass also, wrapping his arms around his knees, very pointedly not looking at Thorin anymore. The dwarf says nothing, simply shifts and shuffles, draping the fur tighter around his shoulders.

“...Are you bleeding, then?” Bilbo inquires after a moment.

“...I was,” Thorin concedes, “I’m fine as long as I don’t move around much.”

“Yes, we both know that. So I take it you plan on spending the night here?” Bilbo growls.

  


The dwarf doesn’t grace that with an answer, and silence takes over again. Bilbo begins to feel somewhat miserable, the long grass nipping at his legs, and the cold of the approaching evening slowly getting to him. He even tries to dream of the Shire for a bit, the warmth of his armchair and the smell of his pantry, but all that brings is a dull irritation. He hugs his shoulders and rubs them in an attempt to warm himself up, and just as he’s about to start complaining out loud, Thorin pulls his fur off with a wince and drapes it over the hobbit’s shoulders unceremoniously – it almost swallows him whole.

Bilbo begins to stutter nonsense, flushed, but is cut off by Thorin’s firmly raised hand.

“There is one thing you must understand,” he speaks sternly, but still somewhat kindly, and with some of the previous strength returned to his voice, as Bilbo notices with a relief, “I will return to that forest the second I’m strong enough.”

His gaze is piercing Bilbo as if he’s daring him to disagree, and the hobbit gulps.

“I... I know that, of course.”

“Very well. ...I want you to know that I won’t require you to accompany me, if this is where you choose to end your journey. ...You’ve done much already, for a kin that isn’t your own at that.”

Bilbo blinks a couple of times, Thorin’s words rendering him speechless for a good long while.

“But... I signed a contract,” he says the first, silliest thing that comes to his mind.

Thorin smiles shortly, somberly.

“That you did. But I believe it will require some adjustments, as I highly doubt there will be fourteen of us claiming the reward in the end.”

“Oh, I wish you would _stop saying that!_ ” Bilbo whines, and scrambles to his feet, all of a sudden fed up with everything Thorin has said or will have to say, and so he adds, perhaps a bit more harshly than he’d planned: “Honestly, I don’t need to listen to this.”, and marches towards the house, not looking back once.

  


He cooks up a quick stew and eats alone, his anger dulling gradually and becoming more of an unpleasant, heavy sort of sadness. He knows perfectly well he tried his very best to ease Thorin’s mind, but if he insists on pointless stubbornness, then really, there is nothing Bilbo can or will do, because apparently, making a dwarven King change his mind is akin to making a mountain budge, and he has neither the patience nor the frame of mind for that. And if Thorin doesn’t want him by his side anymore...

He hears him then, making his way up the stairs, and forbids himself to go help him. Instead he sits alone for a while longer, not even bothering to re-light the lamp when it runs out of oil, sputters and dies. He watches the shadows on the table prolong and eventually decides that that is quite enough dark thoughts and brooding for one hobbit, grabs a bowl of stew and clean bandages, and makes his way to Thorin’s room.

He finds the King sitting up and simply glaring at the door, his gaze snapping away as Bilbo enters. The hobbit scoffs at that, and Thorin grumbles something under his breath, then straightens up.

“I would just like to say...-”

“Oh, I’m sure you would like to say a great many things, but I don’t want to hear any of them. Off with that shirt,” Bilbo retorts, quite proud of his steadfast tone.

Thorin deflates, and watches Bilbo prepare the healing salve silently.

“...I once told Gandalf I would not be responsible for either your safety or your fate, you know,” he declares, and Bilbo shuts his eyes tight, glad that his back is turned to Thorin, because suddenly, he feels like someone just punched him in the gut very powerfully, and he’s not certain his face hides it well, or at all.

“Just as well,” he responds dully, “no one asked you to be, least of all me.”

  


He finds it easiest not to look at Thorin just yet, and so he fiddles with the salve and the bandages and anything else that he can get his hands on, really.

“I don’t think I have a choice in the matter anymore,” comes an unexpectedly soft-spoken reply.

“I can take care of myself, you know,” Bilbo mutters, and wishes very urgently to be somewhere, anywhere else.

“Yes, you’ve proven that before,” Thorin says, then, more seriously, “but you know what I must do.”

Bilbo is done for. An unacceptably large part of him feels like curling up somewhere alone and weeping, but then he also has quite the need to go and kick something. He swivels around, and, not caring for his voice breaking, says quite loudly: “Yes, Thorin, I know what you must do. Finish this whole damn quest is what you must do, because apparently, it’s bigger than you, and how could I understand that? I’m a hobbit, for crying out loud. So... so go dive into that wretched forest right now if that’s what you desire, but don’t expect me to follow you, because for all your charm, I will _not_ watch you destroy yourself out of stubbornness!”

“I told you once, I don’t require you to follow me!”

“And I don’t require you to tell me what to do!”

“...But if you want to, then who am I to stop you?”

Bilbo opens his mouth to grant Thorin another fiery reply, but finds his voice lodged in his throat. The dwarf simply gazes at him, eyebrows raised gently, and Bilbo gapes back, quite incapable of coming up with anything to say.

“...Well?” Thorin beckons him when the silence becomes a bit stale.

“Well what?” Bilbo spits – apparently, the anger has not subsided quite yet.

“What do you want?”

He feels he’s blushing to the tips of his ears, and his heart is tolling like a very frightened bell. This conversation is being steered in a direction he’s not quite sure he wants to go yet, or ever, and he hangs his head, sighing deeply.

“...Peace,” he mumbles, choosing the easiest option, which also happens to be true, “I suppose I just want some peace.”

  


Thorin chuckles.

“Then we share at least one common goal,” he declares quietly, “and let’s leave it at that.”

-

  


“Are you sure we shouldn’t go that way?”

“Oh, in Durin’s name, yes, _I’m sure._ ”

  


Legolas was not exaggerating when he said that elves were terrible at navigating underground. Just a few short moments after entering the cave, he turns from a lethal hunter into a clumsy nuisance, and Fili wouldn’t believe it if he weren’t seeing it with his own eyes.

“Look, I think if we go right, we might find the lower floors,” he states, his mind speeding as he paints a mental image of the layout of the part of the caves they’d explored with the rest of the company.

Legolas pulls out his map and scrutinizes it, trying his very best to appear very certain.

“Give it,” Fili orders, then demands, instantly irritated by all the elven runes and delicate lines, “show me where we entered.”

“Somewhere around here,” one long, pale finger circles a part of the map crosshatched and colored in deep blue.

“What’s it say?”

“‘Swamps’.”

“Huh. This is where the Halls are? Right. And where is the entrance we discovered yesterday?”

“Here.”

“Oh, right! See, that’s brilliant! I’m thinking the tunnels are curving this way, so if we’re lucky, this is where the river flows, and if we find it, we suddenly have ourselves a pretty large part of the lair all charted! We just need to find a tunnel that connects here to that one full of eggs we saw earlier, and for that we need to go deeper and down.”

  


All that is heard for one breathless moment is a distant dripping of water, and when Fili looks up at Legolas, the elf regards him with ill-disguised confusion. He shakes his head and sighs.

“Just follow me.”

  


The tunnels in this part of the lair are narrower, less refined and more crooked – probably created not so long ago. They haven’t encountered any spiders yet, and Fili is beginning to feel almost comfortable – the air is still disgustingly damp, but as the path begins sloping down, there is more solid rock and less mud in the walls, and he begins to feel it, something he hasn’t had the chance to get acquainted with very well due to his childhood spent in exile, but is familiar to him anyway, etched in his bones and pulsing in his blood, just like any other dwarf’s – the calling of precious metal. Apparently, some of it seems to lay stored even in mountains as mediocre as these, and he just wonders if the elves know at all. He recalls Thorin telling him and Kili stories when they were little, about Erebor and the power of the deep gold – the natural treasure still waiting to be extracted out of the Lonely Mountain’s lowest core igniting within the resident dwarves’ hearts a sensation so strong, a longing so intense, it drove some mad with the desire to acquire it.

He wishes suddenly, desperately, to see Erebor at last, to walk its bridges and light its halls, and the enormity of the task, and, more importantly, the impossible length and difficulty of the plight to achieve that, almost overpowers him for a moment. He promises himself for at least the hundredth time to never rest until it’s done, and presses on, gathering the resolve he’s never sure he still has, but always somehow manages to muster.

  


A different sort of smell fills his nose then, something he’s encountered before.

“What is that?” Legolas squints.

“I think it’s the eggs,” Fili hisses, “careful now.”

They proceed with infinitely more caution, and soon, the familiar pale orbs begin popping out of the darkness ahead.

“I _really_ don’t think we should touch anything,” Fili stops Legolas from poking them with the tip of his shoe, “come on. If I’m not mistaken, we can’t be far from that cave.”

And indeed, soon they hear a very distant murmur of water, and Fili closes his eyes for a moment, trying to recall the direction the river flows in, and Legolas remarks “It’s strange – where are all the spiders?”, and then the ground below his feet suddenly disappears, and he trips, gasps and falls.

A firm grip on the back of his tunic saves him from certain death, and Legolas pulls him back a few steps and scouts carefully ahead as Fili gathers his wits, breathing still a bit shaky.

“A dead end,” the elf announces, “and a very large cave ahead, I think.”

“Well, the spiders scale trees,” Fili huffs, “I think it’s safe to assume they can do the same with walls. ...Do you have a flare? The _runv-_ whatever you call it?”

Legolas procures one.

“Why?”

“I want to fire it into the cave, see what’s down there.”

  


Legolas _hmph_ ’s and lights it for him wordlessly. The boom echoes unexpectedly loudly, the sound bouncing off the distant ceiling and walls, and they watch the flare like a tiny sun arch up and then begin a slow descent, its red glow flickering, but revealing nothing. Until...

Legolas utters something in sindarin, and Fili gasps. Dozens of spider bodies, and hundreds of eggs, are illuminated by the flare as it reaches the bottom of the cave. The true extent of it cannot be guessed, and they watch in horror as the flare lands soundlessly, just a speck of light, a little golden bead in a bowl of, well, black hairy spiders. It sputters and dies, and Legolas and Fili exchange a look.

“They... looked asleep, didn’t they?” Fili says weakly.

Legolas shrugs.

“I think so. I don’t believe they-”

But whatever he was going to say is lost in the echo of spiders waking up – the all-too familiar clicking of legs and pincers, multiplied by a hundred, sends a shiver up Fili’s spine, and his mind reaches a realization far too slowly.

“The torch,” he mumbles.

“What of it?”

He grips his blades, and looks up at Legolas, who gapes back, eyes large.

“They can see it,” Fili announces, “...and they can scale walls.”

  


They break into a run as the darkness behind them comes alive, and the elf would have the obvious advantage in speed, were in not for his absolutely horrible sense of coordination.

“No, _this way!_ ” Fili has to remind him numerous times, pulling him to spin this corner or that, the layout of the tunnels unfolding in his mind and leading him with surety to the exit. They can’t be sure if the spiders are following them, but the situation becomes clear when they pass a familiar turn and suddenly, the tunnel is bathed in light and they passage spews them out of the lair and into the forest – and their foes are waiting for them.

They enter into a flurry of arrows and blades, side by side, but the spiders decide to retreat surprisingly quickly, and all of a sudden none are pursuing them, and they stop to catch their breath.

“Lovely,” Fili groans, and Legolas smirks.

“Let’s go to the river. Hopefully Tauriel was more successful.”

“So we’re _not_ calling finding a whole new horde of spiders a success?” Fili chuckles.

The sudden thirst for battle spurs him on and warms his insides, and he wishes to see Kili and tell him all about it, feeling almost giddy.

  


Back in his place of comfort, Legolas leads him through the forest swiftly, and they reach the river in no time, but the meeting place is empty yet. Legolas unfolds the map yet again, and with Fili’s help, marks the newly discovered entrance.

“We should draft a new map, solely for the lair,” Fili suggests, “I don’t have much experience in this, but I think I could manage with the help of some of the others.”

Legolas regards him somewhat taken aback.

“...Thank you.”

“You seem surprised my kin are even capable of good deeds,” Fili remarks, deciding he can indulge himself in a bit of teasing.

He laughs when Legolas obviously doesn’t know how to respond.

“Don’t chew it over too much. I just hope you’re not going to be scolded by your father for saving my life.”

“As long as you don’t become more trouble than you’re worth,” Legolas regains his quick wit.

They scoff at each other almost companionably, and the wait continues.

  


After some time, they both start fidgeting in their own way.

“How long has it been since we set out?” Fili inquires.

“Not more than two hours. Hard to say,” Legolas states, then, deciding, “wait here in case they turn up, and I’ll do a quick search.”

He disappears into the greenery before Fili can so much as open his mouth in response, and he is left alone in the shadows. He listens to the crack and hum of the trees, and every now and then, he thinks he hears footsteps, running and gasping, his hearing cheating him... It’s impossible for him to tell how quickly time passes, and Legolas’ return startles him, the elf jumping out of a treetop out of the blue.

“Anything?”

“I think we should return to the Halls,” Legolas responds, the tension in his voice a bit too apparent.

“I want to wait,” Fili protests.

“It’s pointless,” Legolas declares, scribbling a strange rune into the ground with the tip of an arrow, “this will tell them we’ve left if they come here. Come on, we’ll circle back in the direction they were headed, and we’ll either encounter them, or not.”

“Or not,” Fili repeats gruffly.

  


They get back to the Halls without finding either Kili with Tauriel, or more danger, and they’re summoned to the Elvenking right away, despite Fili’s vocal protests and demands to see his brother. Thranduil listens to the overview of the scouting trip with a furrowed brow.

“If we let this continue, there is no telling how far the spiders will dare spread,” Legolas concludes, “I think we need to come up with a way to somehow close the lair down, else-”

“There are more pressing matters at hand,” Thranduil frowns, and his heir deflates surprisingly quickly.

“Like what?” Fili retorts, impatient and more than a little worried for his brother, “these spiders will eat you and your forest alive if you let them. We might be able to-”

“Enough,” the Elvenking cuts him off icily, “dismissed.”

  


Fili watches in mute disbelief as Legolas marches away immediately, but then reminds himself _he_ has more pressing matters to attend to as well. He lets the guard lead him back to the barracks, but his worries are nothing but deepened when he regards the rest of the company at last.

“Everything go alright, laddie?” Balin inquires, and then, “where is Kili?”

“Has he not come back yet?” Fili asks, and ten blankly worried faces are the response to that.

Without a second thought, he trots back up the stairs again to speak with the guards to take him anywhere Kili might be, but he meets Tauriel halfway, her face too grim to be bringing good news.

“What happened?” he demands.

“Come,” she replies simply, and he is rushing through the halls trying to keep up with an elf for what seems like the hundredth time since they came here, his mind supplying him with the worst possible scenarios.

“We did find a new entrance,” Tauriel fills him in, their hurried footsteps echoing dully off the high ceilings, “but it must have been a main one. It was swarming with spiders. Your brother fought valiantly.”

“...But?” Fili offers, and she sighs.

“Here we are.”

  


A door is opened for him, and he is led into a naturally lit room – there is sunlight, real sunlight coming through a tall arched window, and they must be incredibly high for that to be possible, but all Fili cares about is the bed by the far wall, and in it...

“What did you do _now?_ ” he greets Kili with a scolding, but his voice betrays him, breaking.

His brother graces that with a weak smile. He is wearing nothing but an undershirt, and it is soaked in sweat, as well as his hair. His cheeks are pale as snow, and lips dry, and his grasp when Fili grabs his hand far too feeble.

“He got bitten,” comes Tauriel’s explanation from behind, “there really were too many of them, and being short as you are, he got knocked off his feet in no time...”

“Hey, you just sent all of them my way,” Kili protests weakly, his eyes glinting mischievously, and Fili groans, half relieved, half irritated.

“Know your place, dwarf,” Tauriel retorts, but it carries an obvious teasing undertone.

“I know my place, and it’s everywhere but where you’re aiming. You were _horrible._ ”

“Says the one who couldn’t hit a spider falling right on top of his head.”

Kili laughs, but it ends in a coughing fit, and Fili hangs his head, then turns to Tauriel.

“Could you give us a moment?”

She regards him somewhat incredulously, then simply nods and marches out.

“...Are you alright?” Fili demands of Kili, who simply chuckles.

“I am, don’t worry. No thanks to elven arrows, though.”

“Did she betray you? Did she leave you behind?”

“What?” Kili laughs incredulously, “of course not! I was only teasing! No, we were just unlucky, is all. Funny, she thought I was going to die, could you believe that? These elves really know nothing of the resilience of dwarves, don’t they?”

Fili can’t help it, he strokes Kili’s cheek, cold and sweaty.

“I was worried,” he mumbles.

“Yes, me too! She really did aim everywhere but the spiders!”

“ _Kili._ ”

“...Right,” he sighs, “sorry. Are _you_ alright?”

  


Fili grants Kili a short smile, gentle but only half earnest, and he lays his forehead on the linen momentarily, inhaling deeply. His bones are suddenly aching, and he craves a bath, but most of all, for various reasons, he longs to be as far from these elves as possible, as soon as possible. His fingers entwine with Kili’s, and relief washes over him when he feels his brother’s hand on the nape of his neck.

“I am now,” he says.

-

  


The first week at Harrow Mill without its masters passes in a flash. Bilbo has become quite adept at managing it, and his companion, and he feels almost at home – in fact, he even ponders writing a letter to the Shire. Surely the Sackville-Bagginses have started their attempts at getting their hands at Bilbo's home, probably joyfully declaring him dead not a month after he left. He entertains himself with the thought of their faces, were he to return now. He only hopes old Gaffer or someone else will have enough wits about them to take care of the more precious books and belongings of his. Somehow, he knows it will be very, very long before he sees his hole again, and coming to terms with that is simultaneously worrying and rather relieving.

But, most importantly, Matylda and Ludo could return any day now, and so he occupies himself with what he really is best at – stocking the pantry. He bakes day and night, cookies and madelines and crisps that will last weeks, and flicks through old cookbooks he'd found in the shelves as he sits beside Thorin on the back porch, smoking his pipe. Quite simply put, he wants his gratitude to show. Thorin doesn't comment or contribute much past his infuriating attempts to eat any dough before it's finished, and laughing when Bilbo fails to milk the goats. He grows hungrier still as his body seems to finally be healing properly, but it comes with the unpleasant side-effect of jars of blueberry jam and freshly baked sweet buns mysteriously disappearing, and the esteemed dwarven King swearing he has no knowledge of it.

They never continued their conversation about Bilbo staying or leaving Thorin's side – neither seem to be in the spirits, and frankly, Bilbo is glad for it, enjoying the peace, however fragile. At times, he tells himself that everything will turn out alright, but he can never imagine himself past helping Thorin get to Erebor. Simply adhering to the conditions of the contract, saying tiddly-ho when he's earned his fourteenth of the reward, and skipping off to the Shire, doesn't feel... doesn't seem enough. He has a lot of hope for the quest yet, but he is freshly out of ideas about his own small self – that's why he finds it best to just make the best out of what they have.

And that's why, the first thing he feels when someone literally comes knocking on the front door one perfectly agreeable late afternoon, is a very strong sort of irritation.

The man is short and wiry, shrouded in a dark cape, and even though he's smiling and leaning on a walking stick, Bilbo regards him highly warily.

“What can I do for you, kind sir?” he inquires, not particularly caring for his own tone turning out a degree too cold.

“Oh, are Ludo and Matylda not at home? What a shame,” the stranger replies.

“No, they've gone on business to Esgaroth. They should be back some time this week. Would you like me to take a message, Mister...?”

“Flint,” he supplies cheerfully, “my name is Flint. And you are, little Master?”

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” Bilbo retorts, shaking the offered hand after some hesitation, “now, the message?”

“Ah, you see,” the man called Flint smiles sweetly, “I'm afraid it's not something I'm confident relaying via a messenger, no offense to you, little Master. Say, Ludo would always let me stay in one of the rooms upstairs – I'm sure he wouldn't mind me waiting for him right here for a couple of days, what do you think?”

Bilbo, suddenly quite sick of people calling him 'little Master', takes a resolute step back.

“I'm afraid I can't let you do that,” he opts for the tone he saves for when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins demands access to the family documents, “neither Ludo nor Matylda mentioned a visitor, and I will not be responsible for worrying, or even angering them, you see, as they have been rather generous hosts. Now, please, either let me take your message, or leave.”

  


They measure each other wordlessly, Flint smirking, and Bilbo almost, almost doesn't yelp when something brushes at his shoulder and out of the blue, Thorin stands at his side.

“Is everything alright?”

The spark of interest in Flint's eyes is far too apparent.

“What peculiar guests Ludo has these days,” he utters, and the hairs on the back of Bilbo's neck outright speak of danger now, “they call me Flint, sir...?”

Thorin shakes his hand with suspicion much less concealed than Bilbo's.

“Frerin Longbeard, at your service,” he replies, and Bilbo just prays his surprise doesn't show in his eyes, “how can we help you?”

The man repeats his plea, and Thorin's eyes narrow.

“We really cannot let you do that,” he states simply, and the glaring between the two of them is much more intense, and lasts so long Bilbo starts to fidget uneasily.

“Maybe we could, I mean, a cup of tea never hurt anyone...-” he begins to stutter, but the newcomer raises his hands apologetically.

“No, you're right. I wouldn't want to cause any trouble, to Ludo or to you. After all, you do seem like you're barely managing as it is,” he shoots a meaningful look to Thorin's chest, and Bilbo notices in horror that the King is bleeding again, a bloom of red tinting the fabric. The dwarf steps forward, just one shift, the faintest gesture of his arm protecting Bilbo.

“Goodbye,” he says sternly, and then, in the iciest, most menacing tone, “and safe journey. You have our word to tell the masters of this house of your visit.”

Flint inhales, and for one breathless moment, Bilbo is sure he is going to plunge forward, or do something similarly terrifying, but then he deflates, chuckles, and tips his hat to them.

“That's very kind of you. Farewell, _and look after yourselves._ ”

  


Bilbo shuts the door with a rather impolite swiftness, his hands already beginning to shake, and leans his back on it for added measure, and to make sure his knees don't give out.

“Well, that was quite... quite something,” he whines.

Thorin huffs and supports himself on the nearest cupboard heavily, which is enough to remind Bilbo of his state.

“Come,” he offers the dwarf his arm, “let's get you back to bed.”

A quick check back upstairs, when Bilbo has calmed himself down enough to concentrate on the more important matters, reveals that some of Thorin's stitches have pulled.

“Oh, but I have no experience in fixing this,” the hobbit stares at the mess quite helplessly, “I don't understand how this happened!”

“Well, I didn't exactly tiptoe carefully down the stairs when I heard you were having trouble,” Thorin supplies quietly, and when Bilbo looks up at him, he is smiling gently through his weariness and pain. The hobbit blushes.

“That was very foolish of you, if I'm any judge of that. I could have managed on my own,” he scolds the dwarf weakly.

“I'm sure,” Thorin mocks, then with more support when Bilbo remains clueless about the wound, “this shouldn't be hard. I think there's a needle and a thread in the top shelf over there. You'll simply clean this and I will guide you through the rest.”

Bilbo blinks up at him, half-terrified, half-confused.

“But... I mean, will it not hurt?”

Thorin chuckles incredulously, eyebrows arched as if he can't quite believe Bilbo could be serious.

“Yes,” he replies simply, “I suspect it will.”

  


In the end, they manage well enough, with the help of a bottle of ale Bilbo finds in the back of the pantry, and accompanied by a great deal of swearing in Khuzdul, and Thorin falls into a heavy sleep almost immediately afterward, drenched in sweat, cheeks unnaturally pallid, and Bilbo can't help but think he's only made his state worse. He goes to bed very late that night, the sudden silence making his mind come up with the most terrifying of scenarios regarding their earlier visitor, which he attempts to chase away by cleaning the kitchen, sweeping dust, or anything he can think of really. When he does finally get under the covers, he spends what might be hours listening to the sounds from outside, every waft of wind and distant call of an animal suddenly ten times more frightening.

But eventually, he manages to convince himself that Flint was after all just an acquaintance of Ludo's, and if there ever was a chance to be worried about strange men with walking sticks appearing at his doorstep, he missed it when he invited a certain wizard in for tea.

  


What comes afterward, the next evening, might have everything or nothing to do with strange men with walking sticks, but Bilbo certainly wishes he had been more wary either way.

  


The day passes calmly enough – Bilbo even convinces Thorin to help him crack walnuts for a pie he has planned, and the dwarf seems to enjoy the simple workout, however ridiculous and out of place he looks doing it, the nutcracker working much more amiably in his powerful grip than Bilbo's own hands, so tiny by comparison.

“By the way,” the hobbit inquires as he recalls, “who's Frerin Longbeard?”

Thorin blinks and regards him blankly for a moment, the pink and red glow of the setting sun softening his features, and then the faintest hint of smile curves his lips as he hangs his head.

“Longbeard is the name of my clan,” he supplies somewhat gruffly, “Frerin... was my brother's name.”

“Oh,” Bilbo mutters, “oh, I see.”

“He perished in battle at a very young age.”

“I, oh... I didn't ask,” the hobbit squeaks.

“You looked like you were going to,” comes a simple reply, and when Bilbo braves looking into Thorin's eyes, the King doesn't seem anything but slightly tired, his eyes not sadder than usual.

“...Did you- do you have very many siblings?” the hobbit inquires, perfectly ready to offend the dwarf, but far too curious.

“Just a sister, the mother to Fili and Kili. She resides at Ered Luin. Her name is Dís.“

„Oh... oh,” Bilbo sighs, suddenly remembering the two young dwarves with surprising clarity and a pang of pain.

“...The promise of all the pain she would inflict if I didn't deliver her sons back to her in one piece, is enough to spur me on,” Thorin adds somberly after a while, chuckling softly, but all that does for Bilbo is deepen his sudden sadness, and he hangs his head lower.

“I'm sure they're... they will be alright,” he breathes out.

“Yes, I like to think so, too.”

  


They sink into silence, and Bilbo doesn't have any further queries, though he much desires to learn more about Thorin's family, he realizes. They finish their simple job, and somehow, Thorin joins Bilbo as he goes to feed the goats, his calm presence as they walk through the meadows slowly not by any means unwelcome. They don't speak a word throughout, and Bilbo finally opens his mouth with this suggestion or that on their way back, when Thorin stops abruptly, the back of his hand on Bilbo's chest almost knocking all air out of the hobbit's lungs.

“Wh-what's wrong?” Bilbo peeps.

Thorin glares ahead, a lot of the mighty warrior he truly is, returned to his eyes.

“Someone's in the house,” he states simply, and a shiver seizes Bilbo.

“R-really?”

Thorin points, but Bilbo cannot see anything past the sun, almost gone now, painting the veranda in long golden stripes. The kitchen is almost sunken in darkness and the shadows are unmoving, until...

“Oh,” Bilbo gasps, “oh, I see him! ...Well, do you think it's that man?”

“I think it's safe to assume that,” Thorin utters, “and my sword is in my room. Yours too, I presume.”

“Oh gosh, I'd like to think it will not have to come to that, surely-”

  


But they are interrupted by a sound Bilbo hoped he would never have to hear again in his life – a warg howl. It outright terrifies him, freezing the very blood in his veins, and he stumbles a couple of steps back, quite inadvertently. But Thorin, the undoubtedly quicker thinker that he is, yanks at his arm.

“Come!”

They stumble behind the barn halfway to the courtyard, hopefully without being spotted, and Bilbo tries to peek out, and more importantly, not panic as Thorin next to him breathes heavily.

“I don't understand,” he gasps, “how did they... do you think they... do they know we're here?”

“I don't see why else orcs would raid a mill,” is Thorin's stern reply.

His face is ashen, eyes glinting like those of a frightened animal, and they both jump at the voices – the orcs speak in their own language, which sounds horrible to any ears, Bilbo suspects.

“...Can you see how many there are?” Thorin demands, and Bilbo remembers all of a sudden.

His fingers slip into the front pocket of his vest, and the ring is there, almost waiting. He looks at Thorin, his mind charging, different ideas and outcomes rushing over each other, and at last, he decides. He pulls the ring out for Thorin to see.

“I'm going to do something very silly now,” he declares, “could you... could you please put this on?”

Thorin simply gapes at him for what seems like ages, and slowly, his brows begin to furrow menacingly.

“Bilbo, now is not the time for...-”

“No, no, please, listen! This ring, it's, it's magical! I think. Anyway, please put it on, it will make you invisible! Please!”

Just then, they hear the orcs grow silent – they have heard them. Thorin now gapes at the ring, then back at Bilbo.

“What are you – what?”

“Please, _please,_ Thorin, trust me,” Bilbo pleads, “they're obviously after you, and if they see you...-”

Far too late, he hears the sniffing around the back of the barn. Scared out of his wits, he simply grabs Thorin's hand and pulls the ring on his finger – it shouldn't fit, he realizes in a moment of clarity, but somehow, it works, and then there's no more Thorin, except for a rather angry exclamation.

“Hush, Thorin, now, please, _shut up!_ ”

  


At that very moment, a warg and its rider jump out from around the corner, and Bilbo scrambles to his feet with a perfectly horrified yelp. Fortunately, Thorin remains quiet, and Bilbo feels his legs shaking as the warg nears him, its fangs reminding him far too well of his latest encounter with them. He gulps, but perhaps him still remaining in one piece and not being torn to shreds at this very moment might be a good sign?

“H-how can I... help you?” he squeaks ridiculously, and the warg growls, baring its teeth even further.

“Thorin,” the orc speaks roughly, and then the equivalent of 'Where is he?' in whatever the orcish language is called, Bilbo ventures a guess.

“I'm, I'm, I'm so sorry, but I don't... I don't know any Thorin, please, I'm simply just managing this estate for a friend, and I would appreciate it if you didn't... destroy anything, you see,” he stutters absolute nonsense, not having to fake the horror in his voice in the least.

The warg doesn't seem to be interested in the fidgeting little creature, though – instead it sniffs around Bilbo's feet and further by the barn, and Bilbo is sure they must find Thorin any second now... A ferocious growl comes from the rest of the enemies, and both the orc and the warg raise their heads, and are gone as quickly as they came. Bilbo does his very best not to fall to his knees.

“...Thorin?” he hisses, but the only response is a distant buzzing of insects, and the rather worrisome growls and huffs of the foes. Bilbo gathers his wits – obviously he will not be killed just yet, and he dares peek from behind the large rose hip bush by the wall of the barn. The sight steals his breath away – the orcs have dismounted and are now circling the house, stomping on the veranda and looking just about ready to enter. Bilbo weighs his options – taking on, how many... four orcs and four wargs, all by himself has proven ineffective in the past. Charging in is out of the question, but letting them destroy Matylda and Ludo's house isn't an option either...

  


One of the orcs kicks the door in then, and the others pour in after him, and a muffled cry escapes Bilbo's lips. He takes a few steps forward, then back, groaning out loud at his own inability to anything, when suddenly... a warg whine is heard, and then an orc exclaiming ferociously, and he watches the enemies leave the house in a hurry. They shout and growl and then everything stills, and unless Bilbo's eyes are cheating him, he sees a glint of something silver in the window to the kitchen... He's not quite sure what Thorin is doing, but he has the obvious advantage with the ring, and Bilbo decides to stay put for now.

The enemies are quickly recovering, suspicious about the fact that nothing is following them from the house, and so they decide to enter it again, this time with much more caution. But still, Bilbo hears glass breaking and wood creaking and suffering, and he can't help but feel incredibly guilty and sad, because they took advantage of Matylda and Ludo's hospitality, only to repay them like this...

At first, he doesn't realize what he's hearing, but then he turns to see, and his heart skips a beat – Thorin is standing in the gate, Orcrist in his hands, and shouting at the orcs to notice him, absolutely recklessly. They spot him soon enough, and Bilbo cries out inadvertently as they charge at him. He can't see past the slope, and they disappear over it lightning-quick, and not caring for anything else overmuch, he follows them.

He knows before he sees that Thorin has slipped on the ring, because the enemies come to a halt, their growls half furious, half utterly confused. He runs atop the hill, almost stumbling down it, and a plan, a silly, dangerous, absolutely unlikely plan begins to take shape in his mind. First of all, he's just assuming Thorin is where he is, and second of all... well, hopefully, a hobbit is a much less interesting prey than a dwarven king.

Unarmed, unprotected, he begins waving his arms over his head like a fool, yelling: “Hey! You – you brutes! I'm here!”

Eight heads snap in his direction, and for a few precious seconds, the orcs weigh their options. Bilbo prays for Thorin wordlessly, for his blasted stitches to hold, and begins backing up. One warg with its rider separates from the rest, and the others resume their search downhill, and Bilbo whines – obviously, obviously this wasn't going to be easy. The warg is nearing him sinisterly slowly, the orc weighing his large blade, and Bilbo's heart is now beating so fast he fears it's going to jump out of his chest. He's backing back up the hill, Mirkwood below him, the Mill behind him, the chestnut tree to the left... The chestnut tree! The path to it is blocked by the enemy, of course, but still...

  


At that point in the unexpectedly adventurous part of his life (which now really feels like most of it, anyway), Bilbo Baggins finally relents and admits to himself that much of the peaceful hobbit he once was is gone forever – all it takes is realizing he's very seriously considering his chances at outrunning a warg.

 _If I die now,_ he ponders desperately as the pebbles under his feet crunch as he's preparing to bolt, _let it be known that at least I didn't die in my sleep with a half of rhubarb pie still unfinished, like old Took._

  


And with that thought, which might very well be his last, he turns and runs for his life – the house seems oh so incredibly far away, and all he hears is his rushed breathing and the drumming of warg paws behind him, and a bird sits on the well and sings a stupidly cheerful melody...

He trips and falls, and somehow manages to do that exactly when the warg springs to lay a killing blow – thus, Bilbo lands chin first in the ground, something in his neck cracking painfully, and the enemy jumps over him. He scrambles back to his feet as fast as he can with his head spinning and his vision blurring, and stumbles to the well, when, finally, he catches a glimpse of movement all the way down by the bridge, and he swivels to face the coming foe. The warg prepares to jump again and surely tear him to shreds _this time,_ and Bilbo waves his hands in defense, and his voice fails him at first, but then he manages to stutter: “T-there! Look! Look!”

It's a feeble attempt, but he doesn't have the time to feel ridiculous – and fortunately, the orc turns to look, and he recognizes Thorin as he watches his brethren speed to him, a tiny figure by the river, and Bilbo chooses that precise moment to grab the bucket, which is, to his advantage, half-full of water, and slam it over the warg's mound with all the strength he can muster.

He hears the beast whine, but doesn't see, because he breaks into a sprint, and it's quite possibly the fastest he's ever run, and obviously the chestnut has no branches low enough for him to reach, but he simply chooses to ignore that, and somehow, his resolve carries him up and into the treetop, and not at any point does he feel fangs tearing his flesh, which is an achievement all by itself.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, and his previous enemies ignore him altogether and speed down the hill, and Bilbo is clinging to a branch for his dear life, realizing his plan worked for about two seconds. The situation unfolds down by the river, the wargs and orcs nothing but tiny dots, like ants he wishes he could squish. Thorin appears out of the blue about halfway down the meadow leading to Mirkwood, then disappears again when they're almost at him, and Bilbo can only guess the extent of his pain, and suffering.

  


The King's plan is obvious – lead the foes away from the house, hopefully into Mirkwood. But eventually, Bilbo knows, they will lose sight of him, and he doesn't dare guess at their level of intelligence, but if they're half as smart as he gives them credit for, they will return to the Mill and wait and wait until Thorin comes back as well. He thinks and thinks, the cold eastern wind much sharper this high, freezing the sweat on his back. Thorin reappears again at the very brink of the darkness of the forest, and they jump in after him, and Bilbo loses sight of them, and after some time, he finally decides to climb down from the tree.

He lands heavily, painfully, and, his temples throbbing, makes his way back to the house. His ears are cheating him, he thinks he hears the faint song of a war horn carried on the wind, but when he turns to look, he sees nothing but the tar black pool of the forest. Tears start trickling down his cheeks, immediately turning icy cold in the night's air, and a muffled sob escapes him when he finally does reach the house – the veranda alone is absolutely ruined, planks crushed and broken and sticking out, Matylda's rocking chair overturned, almost all the flowerpots cracked. The door has been kicked out of its hinges, and the inside isn't any better – fortunately, the orcs weren't there long enough, but still, there is broken glass on the ground, and one of the beautiful porcelain tea sets shattered in shards on the kitchen floor, not to mention the numerous rugs, trampled and dirty and torn.

“Thorin?” Bilbo sniffs, his voice breaking, a feeble, ridiculous attempt, and nothing but ominous silence responds to him.

  


Eventually, after some amount of undignified sobbing and swearing, he manages to gather himself together at least enough to light the fire in the living room, and his appetite quite lost, he gazes out of the window, expecting the hunched figure of a dwarf to appear, until he begins dozing off. He orders himself not to fall asleep, because surely, Thorin will be back any minute now, and so he cleans and sweeps and rearranges, until the house looks at least a bit agreeable. He still cannot for the life of him imagine what he will tell Matylda and Ludo when they return... He notices a faint pink glow on the horizon, and he picks up Sting and ventures out into the meadows, white mist lending the scenery an eerie glow, and he stands there shaking in the morning cold, the flame of his lamp dancing and flickering, and no matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise, he can't see anyone coming out of the forest.

He curses himself ten times over for his failure, and his foolishness, and his blasted knack for spur-of-the-moment decisions, because not only did he manage to lose Thorin and allow the destruction of a perfectly agreeable homestead, he also failed at something much bigger, something he never hoped to be a part of, but went along with anyway. Stupid, infuriating contracts, and damned, stubborn dwarves with hearts of gold.

He cannot find it within him to sleep still, and so he bakes – the one thing his Mother would do only when she was angry with his Father, and over the years, Bilbo adopted it as well as a form of stress release. Of course, cake dough can be ruined very easily by one's tears dripping down one's chin and neck and into the bowl, but Bilbo hardly notices.

  


He also hardly notices the bang coming from the back porch – he pays it very little attention, his mind swimming in a haze, and only decides to go see because his cheeks are burning from the heat of the oven, and he figures he could use some fresh air.

  


The sun rises and envelops in a red-golden glow the figure of Thorin Oakenshield, leaning on the wooden railing of the steps up onto the porch, and when he regards the hobbit, Orcrist falls out of his grasp and lands with a dull clang, and the King folds over incredibly slowly. Bilbo is on his knees before he knows it, his arms at Thorin's shoulders. The dwarf is bleeding profusely and his face is dirty, sweat-drenched hair sticking to his forehead, but his eyes are gleaming.

“Are you alright?” he huffs gruffly.

“ _Me?_ ” Bilbo squeaks, “what about _you?_ What about the orcs? How did you...?”

“Here,” Thorin breathes out, and presses the cold metal of the ring into Bilbo's palm, but the hobbit's fingers close around the much larger hand instead of the jewel quite on their own.

With his other hand, Bilbo cups Thorin's cheek.

“Come on,” he orders the King, his voice overcome with much more tenderness than he'd dare show under any other circumstances, “we need to get you fixed up. You had me scared beyond belief.”

Thorin's lips quirk in a small, weary smile, and he grips Bilbo's shoulder.

  


“...Seems to be the default state... these days...” he manages, and then his eyes all but roll back into his skull, and he falls forward, and Bilbo Baggins, for all his sins, ends up having his arms full of an unconscious dwarf.

-

  


For all the benefits of elven gratitude, elven anger seems to be much more intense, and everlasting, in comparison. The whole company are summoned, including a still slightly wobbly Kili, to the Elvenking, and are subject to a lot of thinly veiled insults before the problem is finally explained to them.

“The night watch intercepted an orc pack just a couple of hours ago,” Legolas tells the dwarves at last, when Thranduil has calmed down enough to simply lounge in his throne, steaming in quiet rage.

The dwarves exchange a look.

“...And?” Fili speaks the mind of all of them.

“And the accusation stands that either you or your brother, since you were the only ones let out of the Halls recently, have somehow led them here,” Tauriel continues begrudgingly, and it is obvious that even she is realizing the ridiculousness of her own words as she speaks them.

The company erupts in highly offended exclamations and flowery insults of their own, and Fili has to shout at first to be heard.

“Do you know _nothing_ of our history?” he offers, backed up by ferocious agreement of his kin, “orcs have been our greatest adversaries for centuries! What do you think would have to possess us to deal with them? Against you, of all things! We have as little interest in being near them as we have in meddling in your own dealings!”

The Elvenking rises from his throne, fuming.

“Orcs have never ventured into Mirkwood, or even beyond it, before you appeared!” he rages, “it is safe to assume that you bring nothing but chaos in your wake!”

This is followed by another set of fervent swearing and shouting, and, yes, even preparations to start physically fighting, but something occurs to Fili as he watches Legolas and Tauriel exchange a swift, somewhat tormented look. Valiantly, he takes a couple of steps closer to the throne, ignoring Kili's hand grasping at him, and Balin's hissed warning, and very definitely paying no mind to Thranduil's offended grimace.

  


“When was the last time you set foot out of this forest?” he offers, “I am told it used to be green, and beautiful once! It seems to me that you most strongly of all should feel that evil is making its way into the world! Orcs are everywhere these days, as well as goblins, trolls, spiders, and any other foul creatures you could possibly think of. I say again, we have no interest in bringing any of them with us to your doorstep, no matter the less than agreeable terms our two nations are currently at. I am not asking you to trust us, because we wouldn't be so foolish as to trust _you_ , but consider this – it is possible that we find ourselves facing a common enemy. We have agreed to help you rid your forest of spiders, and I dare say we will finish the job – because we have very little choice in the matter, but also because we know in our bones that battling evil has proven much better than ignoring it and letting it rampage around the world unhinged.”

  


Silence spreads through the throne room after that, the eyes of the elves large, and their King seemingly frozen in place. Fili turns away from them resolutely to make his way back to his company, and finds all of them gaping at him in what one might call mute wonder. He grins uneasily, and at last, Balin steps forward, patting his shoulder lightly.

“Well done, lad,” he mutters somewhat gruffly, and the others join in, albeit shortly, cut off by the Elvenking once again.

“I shall not grant you my trust,” Thranduil supplies coldly, “or my gratitude, just yet. However, you do have my respect for standing up for your own. But don't presume to tell me how to battle evil, ever again. I have lived far longer than any of you can begin to imagine, and defeated adversaries greater than any orc or spider.”

“...And yet the orc and spider seem to gain the upper hand _so easily._ ”

That last remark escapes Fili's lips completely inadvertently, and he hears a horrified gasp or two, but he feels strangely light, almost giddy. Thranduil's eyes narrow ominously, and for a breathless moment, everything is silent, but then, even though Fili is never sure afterward that it really happened, the Elvenking smirks, and his voice lacks some of the usual spike of ice when he orders with a languid gesture of his hand: “Dismissed.”

  


They are celebrating their small victories in the barracks later, when Legolas and Tauriel find them, and surprise them with thanks, as heartfelt as they can get, Fili guesses.

“My father might have decided to spare you out of his affection for strong speeches,” Legolas declares, which earns him a laugh or two, and Fili many a pat on the shoulder, “but the issue with the spiders still remains. We need to devise a way to deal with the lair, and swiftly.”

“We know,” Fili nods, then, beckoning, “Ori?”

The youngest dwarf hurries to bring a parchment, and as they unfold it on the table for the elves to see, both Tauriel and Legolas voice their amazement surprisingly earnestly.

“It's what we've managed to piece together so far,” Fili explains, “we took some liberties with interconnecting some of the tunnels, but there is enough room for additions and repairs. Still, we're guessing the lair is much more widespread than it seems, and it might not be possible to chart all of it, anyway.”

Tauriel runs her slender fingers over the smooth lines and tiny letters, all courtesy of Ori.

“This should be... sufficient,” she breathes out, and when that meets with strong dismay, she smirks and hurries to add, “it's very good. Thank you.”

She motions to take the map from them, but a wave of protest stops her, and she raises her eyebrows.

“So sorry,” Kili grins, “but we're keeping this.”

“Ensuring we're properly included,” Fili adds, “besides, I don't think Ori would be half happy were anyone else to scribble into his masterpiece.”

The elves exchange a half-amused look.

'Very well, then,” Tauriel declares, “keep your map. We will speak later.”

  


They wave them off cheerfully, and the rest of the evening is spent in shameless merriment. Fili sits and watches his kin sing and feast and plot their next steps, happy despite the circumstances, and, for about the hundredth time, sends a short, wordless prayer for Thorin. It's as if all time has stopped here, he thinks, but he knows very well that out there, Durin's Day will come soon, and there is little to no chance of making it to the Mountain in time – and even if they do, Thorin is the one who has the key.

He must be beginning to look more than a little worried, because Kili sits down with him, inquiring: “Is everything alright?”

Fili smiles warmly, nodding.

“Are you?” he asks quietly.

“Me...? Oh, I'm fine!” Kili replies cheerfully, “it was nothing! Besides, that remedy they made me drink was supposed to make me retch, but it didn't, and apparently, that's a good sign...”

Fili listens to his brother's boundless muttering with a faint smile. _We will make some good out of this yet,_ he remembers Balin's words, and, weariness creeping into his bones once again, he decides to leave it at that.

“Hm?” he mumbles when he realizes he didn't quite catch Kili's last sentence, or three.

“I said,” his brother supplies, “I think Thorin would be proud of how you spoke today.”

Fili lays down on his bed with a deep sigh, folding his arms behind his head, and smiles up at Kili somberly.

“I still think I'd prefer him to be the one to make that speech,” he mumbles.

As the lanterns are blown out, he can only guess at Kili's face, but it seems to him that his features have grown still, more serious. He lays down at his side, to Fili's immense relief, and whispers: “I know, but...”

“...But what?” Fili beckons him after a moment of silence.

“Well,” Kili says, frightfully earnestly, “do you think he would?”

-

  
Ludo rages when he comes back from Esgaroth, but it is not at all because of his wrecked home, which he sets about repairing swiftly. The second Flint's name is mentioned, the lumberjack becomes livid, and swears all sorts of revenge on the man, who, from what Bilbo understands, double crossed him in the past, causing some sort of horrible accident. However, Ludo is clueless as of how the orcs knew about Thorin staying at the Mill – to his knowledge, Flint was no more than a common cutpurse and a liar, and his affiliation with orcs would be surprising, to say the least.

All these words are spoken directly after Ludo and Matylda return, two nights after the attack. Ludo then inspects Thorin's wounds, infinitely worsened by his running about, but praises Bilbo for a job well done anyhow – still, the King has barely woken up twice since that horrible night, and Bilbo only ever leaves his side when Matylda asks him to help in the kitchen.

The mistress of the house herself doesn't seem swayed in the least by its state, and keeps reassuring Bilbo of it over and over again, until he cannot but accept it. He still worries about the orcs returning, though, and the first night with Harrow Mill full again finds him falling asleep in front of the fireplace, because he'd rather sit there than go into his room, all alone.

  


The next morning, after they've finally unpacked everything they'd brought from Esgaroth, and matters at the Mill, along with poor Bilbo's mind, have finally begun calming down, Ludo remembers in a flash and with a great gasp, and it is lucky that Thorin is there and awake when he does, because Bilbo cannot quite imagine telling him himself.

“I almost forgot in all this ruckus,” Ludo states, “I asked around fer news about yer company, and there were none, but as we were leavin', after two weeks lookin' at it just sittin' there, the Lonely Mountain started steamin'!”

Thorin sits up straight, and Bilbo's heart is suddenly hammering frantically against his ribcage.

“...What does that mean?” the King mumbles, slowly but urgently, and a shiver runs up Bilbo's spine.

“Well,” Ludo supplies, “some say it's nothin', that it sometimes does that as winter approaches, but you and I know better, don't we? It's the dragon. It must be. He's woken up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we go. First time I had actual fun writing Fili, and yet I feel like I overdid it with Bilbo's part of the story, not giving the dwarves enough screen time. Good news is, I think I have the whole story drafted out now, and there is much more politics and Fili's side of the whole thing to come. Hope you enjoyed this one, and the ending wasn't too brash!


	4. Up In Flames

“We must set out! I _will not_ sit idly by while the dragon rampages around my Mountain!” the King rages.

He's been growing increasingly impatient since he was told the news from Esgaroth, and Bilbo has a hard time making him stay still, or even bearing his constant restlessness, for that matter.

“May I remind you, the dragon has been rampaging around your Mountain for the past, what, a century?” he retorts quite tactlessly, “besides, look at you – we're not going anywhere unless you stop bleeding every time you stretch your arms.”

Thorin scoffs at him, but deflates when he notices his shirt is tinted red again. Bilbo motions to help him pull it over his head, but his hands are snapped away promptly.

“These things I can do myself,” Thorin states sternly.

“Suit yourself,” Bilbo frowns.

  
  


And so the King goes about disposing of his shirt, but surely enough, his attempt ends in a pained wince the second he needs to twist his arms into the more complicated positions. He tries again, refusing to admit failure, but cries out again, all the while Bilbo watches calmly.

“Your pride will be your downfall, Thorin Oakenshield,” he supplies, repeating something he thinks he heard Gandalf say once.

Thorin snarls at him weakly, but lets him near to assist. When the shirt is off, he sinks into the pillows with a wince, and hisses when Bilbo begins uncovering the wound. Ludo did his very best to keep it from festering, but it heals only very slowly now, and more often than not, the dwarf complains about fevers and a sickness to his stomach.

Bilbo goes on about his work methodically – personally, he thinks it's rather amazing how thoroughly he got accustomed to all the blood and grime, but surely Thorin would merely laugh at him were he to bring it up.

The dwarf sits up to let him put on the new bandages once the cleaning is done, but the flex of his stomach muscles is apparently too much for the wound, and it starts bleeding again at several places. Bilbo strains himself to think of a more comfortable arrangement, and when it occurs to him, he just hopes he isn't blushing too much.

He beckons Thorin to sit up again and piles as many cushions and pillows behind his back as he can, so that he can rest against them. Then, having figured out it would all best be handled quickly, he gathers the clean bandages, says earnestly: “I'm sorry for this.”, and climbs into Thorin's lap, sitting on his legs astride. The King huffs in surprise, but admittedly handles the whole situation with dignity, and Bilbo doesn't even have to start explaining how this way he will have better access to the wound, and a safe position to bandage his torso without too much blood loss...

  
  


Later, he will realize that this precise moment was a turning point of sorts, as silly as it sounds, but for now, he simply resumes his work, and mutters nonsensically, very pointedly avoiding thinking about anything else than long, clean stripes of linen: “I won't tell anyone, don't worry. I will have no part in damaging your pride, even though it looks like... well, I don't-”

An incredulous huff of laughter interrupts his increasingly ridiculous mumbling.

  
  


“You cause me no shame, Bilbo,” Thorin says almost gently, and the hobbit can't quite help himself then, and he looks up into the dwarf's eyes.

The King's face is a well-concealed grimace of lingering pain and weariness, but his eyes are soft and kind, and he's smiling ever so gently, and Bilbo doesn't think he deserves that.

“Erm... well, thank you... I suppose,” he gulps, suddenly very aware of their close proximity, and Thorin merely nods.

He finishes his work quickly, trying his damnedest to ignore the dwarf's eyes still glued to him, and the warmth of his skin under his fingers, and when at last he hops off the bed, he feels somewhat lightheaded for reasons he'd rather not admit to himself at all.

  
  


Yes, definitely a turning point if a hobbit ever saw one, but he will not come to recognize it until much, much later – almost too late, in fact.

-

  
  


He wakes up drenched in sweat, cold and dizzy, and his fumbling about wakes Kili in a matter of seconds.

“What... Fili? What is it?”

Fili sits up, rubbing his face. _Fire, and Thorin's voice echoing over the clash and clang of weapons, and a crown broken in half..._

“Nothing,” he mumbles, “a bad dream, that's all.”

His brother's fingers tangle in the wet hair at his temple, and Fili is grateful that it's Kili doing the soothing down, just this once – he gazes at the blurs of green-golden light outside of the window dance and spiral, his eyelids heavy with sleep once again, and remembers the fairy tales Balin would read to them, of great wizards and the time when elves and men and dwarves fought as one, and dragons only lived far away to the east. It was a time when prophecies were not taken lightly, but the meaning of all that would become apparent to the princes only when they've grown a bit more.

Kili saw their King dying before his eyes, swallowed by the darkness of Mirkwood, and Fili saw a great battle, lives lost and a river of blood – he tries not to think about that one particular tale they so loved as children, where two brothers of royal blood suffered from great nightmares for years and years, until at last, to rid themselves of the anguish, they prayed to Mahal and were forced by him to choose, and make one of them come true.

  
  


Instead he burrows his nose in Kili's arm and lets him bring him close, glad the night steals the sight away from anyone else.

  
  


If he is still shaken in the morning as they're preparing to delve into the forest yet again, he doesn't let it show in the least. The whole company are included this time, as the elves are apparently planning a much more valiant and widespread approach to charting the spider lair. Fili would like to think that they had a little bit to do with this sudden change in tactics, but he will certainly not push his luck by boasting it. Instead, he finds solace in watching his kin prepare for the battle that is sure to come – it is not natural for dwarves to be idle for so long, and they're all longing to get out of the elves' halls and into action.

“One of you with me and the scouting party,” Tauriel announces, and Fili is quicker to react than Kili this time.

“Stay with the group,” he orders his little brother, who seems a bit dismayed.

“I'm fine,” Kili retorts, some of the annoying fifteen-year old returned to his voice.

“I'm not going to risk that,” Fili offers simply, and Kili scoffs at him, but is quickly joined by the rest of the company, and Fili is ushered to depart with the first group of elves. 

  
  


Entirely unexpectedly, Tauriel sends some of her soldiers ahead when they delve into Mirkwood once again, and marches at his side.

“How is your brother feeling?” she inquires, and Fili resists the urge to use a very flowery curse in Khuzdul he remembers all of a sudden, and promised his Mother some thirty years ago he would never ever use again unless beheading his greatest adversary.

“Quite alright, thank you,” he supplies curtly, “we are much sturdier than you.”

“Yes, I've noticed – he took many more hits than me in that last fight, and didn't seem in the least bit swayed.”

The mocking undertone is apparent, but Fili sees no reason why he shouldn't pay back in due.

“Yes, he said you just stood by as he did all the work,” he offers bitterly, and she chuckles.

“We did have a tremendous time together,” she singsongs, and he snaps to look up at her.

Her eyebrows are raised, a smirk dancing on her lips – she is taunting him, but he has more sense than to fall prey to it. Or so he hopes.

“Kili does have a knack for plunging head first into pointless danger,” he says icily, but Tauriel merely laughs it off again.

“I am no danger to him,” she states lightly, but clearly.

“I'll be the judge of that,” Fili scoffs, against his own better judgment.

“Very possessive,” she smirks, and he is about to bicker some more, but the elves ahead of them come to a halt, and Tauriel leaves his side and trots to them to assess the situation.

  
  


Fili is ordered to ready himself, as spiders have been sighted not far by, but all he can think of as he unsheathes his blades are his Mother's words, some of the last she said to him before they embarked on the quest with Thorin: _Keep your brother safe, but Mahal save you if you dare decide things for him. You're not children anymore, and it is not for you to steer him._

He decides to ignore that momentarily, for both their sakes.

-

  
  


Thorin smiles more often these days, and Bilbo suffers for it. He knows not why, but an ineffable ache rises in his chest every time he manages to make the King laugh, every time he is greeted by him so earnestly in the morning, and indeed every time he bids him good night, only to fail at falling asleep in his bed, suddenly too large for just one simple hobbit. He _yearns,_ and he knows not for what, and it is a highly impractical feeling, disturbing in its power to render him completely useless for hours on end.

He decides to dismiss it, and mentions it to no one, which is a very Baggins thing to do, and manages quite nicely to go on about his daily duties and routines, many of which differ radically from what he once was used to, but are dear to him anyhow. He could honestly spend days sweeping the back porch and raking leaves and baking cinnamon buns, not indulging his Tookish side in the least, and he would probably be happier for it, but once again, he is reminded that the respectable Mister Bilbo Baggins of Bag End is no more – certainly, he worries much more than his old self would ever find healthy, and about things many a hobbit would deem absolutely outlandish. 

  
  


The main subject of the current turmoil in his mind doesn't help one bit – beside trying to speed up his healing process by any means necessary, including and not at all limited to swishing Orcrist around in bed and walking up and down the stairs until he's breathless, Thorin grows inexplicably softer around the edges, frighteningly easier to talk to, and so somberly kind it takes Bilbo's own breath away.

The King is despairing, though, Bilbo knows, because even for a hobbit not so well versed in calendars and astrology, it isn't hard to tell that Durin's Day is just around the corner. And so he pushes his own worries back into the deepest corners of his mind to try and rid himself of them completely, and focuses all his power on making Thorin feel better.

  
  


In the good belief that steaming oneself in hot water will ease off any worry, and after careful discussion with Ludo on the state of the dwarf's wounds, Bilbo coaxes the King to take a bath, drawing the large copper tub in the upstairs bathroom full, and adding a selection of scented oils and bath salts he finds in the shelves there, and deems appropriate. He is just about to leave the weary dwarf alone, his head resting on the back of the tub, eyes closed, when Thorin murmurs: “...Do you think you could help me with something?”

“Yes, of course, what is it?” Bilbo is almost too quick to respond.

“My hair needs washing,” Thorin supplies almost shyly, “and I don't think I can manage that quite yet.”

“Oh,” Bilbo mutters, “oh, well, yes... certainly, I'd be happy to... I mean...”

Any previous train of thought lost, he watches Thorin sink slowly lower with a grunt to wet his mane. Bilbo then searches for some sort of cleaning ointment, and drags a stool behind the head of the tub. He starts out gently, sheepishly at first, but soon realizes the incredible mass of hair will not relent to delicate touches. The King soon relaxes, closing his eyes and even humming a simple tune, like a lullaby. Sharp afternoon sun comes in through the colored bathroom window, lending the scene a rich golden hue, and a small smile dances on the hobbit's lips, though he barely notices himself.

“Will you accompany me, if we ever set out again?” Thorin speaks unexpectedly, softly, but with an urgency that gives Bilbo a pause.

“ _When_ we set out,” he opts for his most hopeful, reassuring tone, “then of course I will. I do think I've made my... my intentions quite clear, but thank you for asking, anyway.”

One icy blue eye glints up at him as the King turns his head slightly.

“I do believe I'd be quite lost without you,” he admits, and this, Bilbo will churn over in his mind for days to come, he feels, until he will forget if Thorin ever really said it – it's so surprising in its honesty he can't quite find a suitable answer (aside from a horribly heartfelt ' _And I you'_ ), and so he simply nods with a smile, mutters something along the lines of 'Don't mention it', and his fingers resume their run across Thorin's scalp.

  
  


The dwarf seems to be in infinitely better spirits after the bath, which Bilbo gives himself a lot of credit for. He helps him get into bed, tends to his wounds and brings him an early dinner, all in a rather good mood, utterly unprepared for anything unexpected, his 'Get some sleep' as he adjusts Thorin's blankets and pillows almost dangerously tender.

“I... find that hard to do,” comes a quiet reply.

“Oh, how so?” Bilbo inquires, and Thorin looks out of the window, brows furrowed, as if he's displeased with his own weakness.

“I do not know,” he mumbles, “I've been in this bed for too long, I think. Besides, I do not fall asleep well alone anymore.”

It is an innocent enough remark, surely pertaining to the loss of his company and with them the nights spent sleeping back to back, shoulder to shoulder, practically snoring on top of each other (which Bilbo had grown strangely fond of himself before the separation), but it invokes in the hobbit's mind images from their time alone in Mirkwood, Thorin's arms cradling him close in the utter darkness...

“It's the house, I should think,” he says instead, pleased with the clarity of his voice, “even with Matylda and Ludo, it's too big, too...”

“Empty,” Thorin mutters.

“Precisely,” Bilbo nods, and stands by the bed helplessly for a moment, arms full of blood-stained cloth, before an idea finally occurs to him.

  
  


“Would you like me to bring you a book?” he offers quite cheerfully, “there is quite the library in my room, and, well, somehow I don't think you'd be interested in cookbooks, but I'm sure I can find something quite lovely if I try, you know. And, reading is proven to help with falling asleep, so...”

He's trailing off, and Thorin is smiling softly.

“I think I would like that,” he admits quietly.

“Excellent! What would you have me fetch?”

“Oh, do bring something you like,” comes the most vague request possible.

“Couldn't make it any easier on me, could you?” Bilbo grumbles, and when a smile lights the King's face once again, he turns and trots away.

  
  


There are indeed far too many cookbooks, he soon discovers, and historical lectures, and manuals on different sorts of gardening, but at last he finds something quite extraordinary – wedged in between a thick herbary and a dictionary of some very ancient runes is a small volume titled _My Life With The Dwarves And Other Accounts Of My Travels To Middle Earth,_ by one Fillibald Took. Bilbo can hardly believe it – everybody knows the name back at home, of course; Fillibald was the grandfather of Old Took himself, a great, silly, valiant adventurer, who spent much more time on his travels than in the Shire, was the first one to bring disrespect on his family, if Bilbo recalls correctly, and even founded the now esteemed museum in Bree. 

Deeming it amusingly fitting considering his present situation, Bilbo grabs the book and hurries to Thorin's room, though he half-expects the dwarf to be asleep already. He is greeted quite enthusiastically instead, though, and Thorin laughs when Bilbo recites the title of his find. He ends up reading out loud, in a chair by the bed, the King complaining about his eyes hurting or whatnot, and they have quite a tremendous time of it – as they delve in, they find out that Fillibald Took spent his time with the dwarves of the Iron Hills, years before Thorin's time, but still, the King interrupts with a remark here and there, remembering a piece of trivia or making note of a familiar name, effortlessly filling Bilbo in on the history and workings of some of the dwarf clans, which turns out to be much more interesting and exciting than the hobbit had ever dreamed.

They did start out at what was only very early in the evening, but their mutual interest in the stories keeps them up for many more hours, interrupted only by Bilbo running out to fetch something to eat, or to make tea. He goes one last time, deep into the night, to bring Thorin a refill of water for the night, and when he comes back, it seems that the dwarf has finally fallen asleep, head dropping, long locks framing most of his face. Bilbo sets the jug on the end table and goes about blowing the lamps around the room, and just as he's about to adjust the King's blanket and extinguish the last candle, Thorin shuffles and his eyes flutter open.

“Good night,” Bilbo says, and puts their book away, “I say we continue this tomorrow.”

“...Keep me company,” Thorin murmurs, burrowing deeper into the pillows.

Bilbo's hands freeze on the soft of the bedspread.

“...I beg your pardon?” he stutters.

He wishes the King had just mumbled nonsense and is fast asleep again, but instead, two eyes like precious stones gleam at him in the now darkened room.

“Keep me company,” Thorin repeats simply, as if he's asking for directions, “I said I had trouble sleeping alone.”

“T-that's... I can't just... I mean, what do you...” Bilbo stutters and stumbles over words.

“Well, don't strain yourself if it _damages your pride,_ ” the King mumbles, nothing but weariness in the soft of his voice, and Bilbo chuckles, most certainly against his better judgment.

“I'll – I'll be back shortly then, I just need to change,” he supplies after a moment's consideration.

“I'm not going anywhere, I assure you,” Thorin breathes out, his voice already heavy with sleep.

  
  


And so Bilbo hurries into his room, slipping into his sleeping clothes, wishing his heart weren't fluttering in his chest almost frantically. He's not quite sure what he just agreed to, to be completely honest – their momentary sleeping arrangement in Mirkwood was so only due to practicality, the need for basic warmth, nothing more. This... this is subtler, and could be interpreted in ways a hobbit like Bilbo should have no business interpreting.

He scoffs at himself in the mirror on the door of his wardrobe – obviously the dwarf needs a little company, what with the state he's in, and surely Bilbo can provide as much without making a fuss about it. Yes, that is all he will allow himself to make of the matter.

He tiptoes back to Thorin's room then, and sees his eyes are closed, but they crack open the second the floor creaks under Bilbo's feet. With some hardship, he scoots so that there is indeed much more room than he will probably be needing on Bilbo's side of bed. The hobbit climbs in somewhat stiffly. The smell of Ludo's herbal salve is ever-present, though not unpleasant, and mixed with the fresh scent of clean linen, it succeeds in making Bilbo relax at least a little bit. He lays with his back turned to Thorin so as not to inconvenience him, but soon, weight shifts and the sudden warmth at his back is somehow familiar and infinitely comforting, and, more than a little worried, Bilbo admits to himself that it is exactly what he's been missing all the nights spent buried under too many blankets in his own large bed next door. Thorin shifts some more and one arm snakes on the pillow above Bilbo's head, his heart almost stopping, and he relents then, moving until he finds a comfortable spot in the nook of Thorin's shoulder.

“...Are you not uncomfortable?” he mutters uneasily, and a soft rumble of laughter reverberates in Thorin's chest and sends shivers up Bilbo's spine.

“Not in the least, don't worry,” comes a whispered reply, and judged by the proximity of it, Thorin has moved so that his chin almost rests on the back of Bilbo's head, and the poor hobbit really wishes he had fallen asleep the second he hit the pillows, because this will bring him many things, but rest will not be among them.

-

  
  


They come back battered, bruised, and, above all, covered from head to toe in smelly mud, because by some cruel trick of fate, rain found its way even through the thick dark foliage, making the terrain dangerously slippery when they exited the caves, and the fighting almost impossible. And fight they did, the spiders unwavering and angered by their advances. The trip did yield some results, though – Fili and Tauriel's group managed to join with the company of dwarves after having charted their way through two floors of the lair, finding more crooked corridors ending abruptly in large cages ahead (after Fili's previous experience, they didn't light any flares, simply went back the way they came from, carefully and quietly), and the disoriented elves stepping on so many eggs it was a miracle they didn't rouse the whole underground populace.

The others have had similar luck, Ori's original of the map quickly filling with more and more lines, but large parts are still merely haphazardly crosshatched and waiting for more details. 

“It's odd,” Kili states, all of them sitting around the map after a proper bath and a dinner, “we keep encountering the spiders every time we exit the lair, anywhere, but when we're inside, there's little to no resistance.”

Fili gazes at him – he sits on the other side of their circle and never looks back at him. When they fought, the others watched Fili's back while Kili always seemed preoccupied somewhere else. He didn't ask Fili if he was alright, and only responded shortly when faced with the same question, trotting back to the Halls up ahead with the elves, and it's all little things, but Fili feels that piecing them all together will eventually uncover a much bigger problem, one that he lacks the bravery for now.

“Look,” Ori interrupts his increasingly gloomy thinking, his hands circling the map, “here, and here, these are all the large caves, where we think the spiders are sleeping alongside the eggs, right? Five of them so far, plus the one with the waterfall? Do you see it?”

They stare at the youngest blankly, until he flushes and relents.

“They are in a sort of circle!” he explains eagerly, “well, not yet, but I'm sure we'll find many more around these areas, and then, maybe-” he jabs his finger into the middle of his map, “something in the center.”

“What do you think will be there?” Fili inquires.

“No idea,” Ori concedes.

“Well, obviously the spiders must be coming from somewhere,” Bofur chimes in, “there's so many of them. But they're not moving through the same tunnels we are, that's for sure.”

“ _Hazal kirunkad!_ ” Bifur exclaims, and Fili realizes he doesn't know the words, to his surprise. 

The others seem equally confused.

“What'd he say? Something 'bout shadows?” Oin demands.

“ _Hazal kirunkad,_ ” Bifur repeats, running his fingers along the lines of the tunnels, and Bofur finally comes to a realization.

“Oh, it means 'saving shade'. I think. It's an old mining term! It describes the tunnels they would dig if they needed to go in really deep – like, back when Moria was first explored. A sort of... well, ventilation, thinner tunnels following the main ones almost exactly, that air could flow through freely for many miles. I think we stopped creating those because they kept caving in at the most inconvenient places.”

“And, what, you think the spiders are capable of digging these?” Dori is doubtful.

“There's enough air in all the tunnels we've been to,” Dwalin adds.

“I don't know, do I?” Bofur shrugs, “but it would explain why they seem to be everywhere we are every time we find a new exit.”

“They could be following us at all times!” Nori offers.

  
  


The speculations begin to pile up, and plans begin to brew, and the night is long and longer still, because the Elvenking demands to be informed of everything as well. He cannot be convinced to speed up the process, though, and Fili grows impatient and harsh talking to him – time is of the essence now, as Oin, who is the most skilled at astrology and keeping track of time, estimates Durin's Day is not far by. Eventually, they settle on more charting and scouting, Fili very nearly insulting Thranduil in ways that would surely get them all expelled back into Mirkwood would the elf understand Khuzdul, and sleep doesn't come easy this time – Kili doesn't lay down with him, instead stays awake with Ori, bent over the map, until Fili simply can't keep his eyes open anymore.

  
  


He dreams of fire again.

  
  


The next morning finds him craving a bath and a few more hours of sleep, but he is denied both, as the elves seem to want to resume their work as early as possible. He gears up somewhat disoriented – half of the company have already gone, along with Kili, and Balin, who remains, explains to him the day's plan, but eventually stops.

“Are you feeling alright, my lad?” he inquires.

Fili very nearly winces out loud. Of course Balin would pick up on any change in mood, he has been trained to do so since the brothers' childhood, but Fili still resents himself for letting anything show.

“...Yes,” he sighs begrudgingly, then, seeing as they're alone in the room now, “did Kili... has he been talking to you?”

“Not much, why?” comes a reply, which Fili recognizes far too well as a gentle nudge.

“He's been... distant,” he mumbles, feeling as if he's a little child again, admitting to stealing from the kitchen.

“Have you asked him about it?”

“I don't think he'd be too eager to tell me,” Fili mumbles, entirely prepared for Balin's scolding quirk of the brow, and thus adding hastily, “I didn't _do_ anything. I told him once to linger behind after his injury, but I just needed him to be safe! He's not talking, and it's as if he's avoiding me, spending time with _elves_ instead...”

Balin is smiling, and Fili doesn't think he has the energy for that – his temples are starting to throb, and, oddly enough, he sorely wants to get out into Mirkwood again all of a sudden, the dim light of its day mellowing his mind and evening out his scattered thoughts.

  
  


“How many times have I let you boys run to the forges and play with the blowers when you were little?” 

“Balin, I really don't think...-”

“How many times?”

Fili pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Countless,” he supplies, “but I really don't see how...-”

“Countless times,” Balin interrupts him again, “until you let your brother almost catch fire that one time, and Hurin the Blacksmith found you and, besides saving both of your from burning alive, he did me a great service and terrified you out of your wits, and you never went down there again.”

Fili smirks shortly, rubbing his face. The embers coming to life like fireflies were much too taunting for two little whelps, but nobody taught them that mixing them with _that_ silvery powder would end up in such a mess. To this day, Kili has a set of tiny scars like stars peppered right below his collarbone.

“What is your point, Balin?” he asks gently.

“My point is, I let you be silly until you learned to be clever all on your own,” the old dwarf replies kindly, “I let you make your mistakes, and I still maintain it was the best teaching method, despite what your Mother and Uncle thought. I think you should try and do the same with your brother. He will come around eventually, I'm certain of it.”

  
  


Fili grants Balin a weak smile.

“Even if it hurts me?” he mumbles feebly, suddenly missing his Mother and his home and the pine trees and the forges with an urgency that threatens to sweep him off his feet.

Balin reciprocates the smile somberly, and squeezes his shoulder.

“Even if it hurts you,” he confirms Fili's worries.

-

  
  


Hobbits are selfish – it is a fact, the same as saying their feet are hairy. They care about their comfort, and good food, and a warm hearth, and they would do anything for those they love, indeed, but largely because troubling them, losing them, or in any way causing, or seeing them be in, pain, would also bring great suffering to the hobbits themselves, and they care for themselves with great intensity. It is a twisted concept, and makes living absolutely sodding unbearable at times, Bilbo decides.

He _longs_ for peace now, for a daily rhythm and for the warmth of another body beside him, and he wishes very much for a way to finish this damned, wretched quest _right now,_ because most of all, he wishes for Thorin to...-

He stops there every time, not allowing himself any further development of his thoughts – he's been an adventurer long enough to know that there are things far greater than him, infinitely more important, and certainly in a much more urgent need of attention. 

Thorin certainly seems to have his mind set on _his_ wants, because he goes about helping Ludo where he can with preparing the mill for the winter, always managing to tire himself out completely, but very obviously training himself, to be able to embark on the quest once again as soon as possible. Bilbo occupies himself with assisting Tylda, grateful for her easygoing demeanor – she is a seemingly endless source of stories, apparently having traveled through about a Middle Earth and a half before she, in her own words, 'stumbled upon' Ludo in an inn in Osgiliath, and decided to go wherever he went from then on (Bilbo _tries_ not to see the similarities, he really does). Even having married this unusual man, she kept traveling, spent some time at the great cities of Men, saw the great tower of Isengard, and even lived by the sea for a short while, which Bilbo is possibly the most jealous of.

  
  


When he asks her why she settled down at all, she laughs very earnestly, and tells him that, firstly, she had seen everything there was to see for one wee hobbit, and secondly, she'd always been searching for a home, it just took some time to find it. She asks _him_ then why he's decided to travel this much, since, or so it appears to her, he's already found his home, and he chokes on pipe smoke, and isn't quite capable of answering for the longest time.

  
  


Bilbo watches her and Ludo, the warm, almost lazy comfort of their interactions, the gentle teasing, and he feels envious second, and inexplicably sad first.

“It's odd,” Thorin speaks next to him out of the blue one very rarely warm afternoon on the veranda, as Ludo has Matylda hoisted on his shoulders and she is cleaning out the rafters and the drains of the barn, the shadow they're casting quite peculiar, resembling some terrifying beast.

“Hm?” Bilbo mumbles through the mouthpiece of his pipe, “what is?”

Thorin smirks, leaning on the wooden railing – his hair is pulled back from his face and braided, his cheekbones sharp and striking, even covered in a steady layer of dust from helping Ludo find this or that in the attic, and he's only wearing a simple shirt despite the increasing cold, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“I just find it... well, extraordinary, that two people so obviously different, have found love with each other.”

He says it gently and clearly, the words almost unnatural coming from him.

“Oh, hobbits often marry humans, actually,” Bilbo supplies, “well, it's not exactly a, a common occurrence, but it happens. My cousin Leeda married a human tanner some years back, he was quite the sight every time they visited the Shire.”

“Indeed?” Thorin muses.

“Oh, yes. Do dwarves not... venture into the unknown?” Bilbo asks lightly.

  
  


The King laughs earnestly, joined by Tylda's own squeak of laughter as Ludo drags her off his shoulders and catches her in his arms.

“No, not really,” Thorin declares, “our kind is much more... reserved in these matters. Do you remember Fillibald Took writing about the King who needed ten years, three lost battles, and one lost leg to court his Queen? His advances were what was considered radical not four hundred years ago.”

“Huh,” Bilbo huffs, his chest clenching in something highly inconvenient, “but I... well, I do think I remember Gloin telling me about his wife, quite at length, and how lovely their wedding was...”

“Yes, well,” the King chuckles, “fortunately, there has been _some_ progress. But still, some of us... _many_ of us, only find love once in a lifetime, and others don't even feel the need at all, being too preoccupied with crafts, and other... issues.”

“I see,” the hobbit offers politely.

  
  


Something like... jealousy, or desperate anger, stirs within him, but he cannot quite comprehend it. It becomes obvious then (or perhaps he simply admits it to himself at long last) just how different he and Thorin are, and will always continue to be. He draws from his pipe almost too strongly, a waft of smoke getting where it shouldn't go, and his eyes water as he coughs.

“And have you found... if you don't mind me asking...?” he inquires, his curiosity getting the better of him momentarily, but he regrets it the next second, because a ghost of a darker emotion flashes over Thorin's face, his pleasant allure fading, but then he shakes his head gently and smiles shortly.

“Not quite yet,” he replies, and Bilbo still can't quite believe he's having this conversation with him – he imagines it would be quite peculiar to hear any dwarf, much less Thorin Oakenshield, talk of these matters so... freely.

“I have been preoccupied with ensuring the safety of a whole clan over these last... one hundred and fifty years, so my... mindset has not been quite right, as I'm sure you can imagine.”

Bilbo _hmph_ 's and draws from his pipe, and silence takes over. Ludo and Matylda have finished their work and are now bickering over the piles of wood stocked up for the winter, Tylda reaching up and the lumberjack very nearly kneeling down as she pulls something out of his hair. Bilbo smiles quite inadvertently.

“What about you?” Thorin inquires then.

“What about me what...? Oh! You mean if I've...,” Bilbo stutters and blushes, then clears his throat, “well, erm. I'm certainly not opposed to the idea of settling down. By gods, I do think pleasant mornings and warm pies were made to be shared, it's just that I don't... I haven't had the need... I haven't found anybody who...”

His voice eventually dies out under Thorin's scrutinizing gaze, and he gulps. The dwarf sits down with a grunt, inhaling deeply, and wordlessly, Bilbo joins him and offers him his pipe and he accepts it with a faint smile, drawing from it with great pleasure, resting his head on the plank of the railing. His features are serene, his cheeks perhaps a bit more gaunt and a tad more wrinkles criss-crossing his forehead, but his eyes are glinting in the sharp sun, and Bilbo can't help but let a ragged sigh escape his lips at the sight.

“Well, it's perfectly understandable,” the King supplies quietly, then, adding as if he's unsure of his own words, “it seems that we are joined in waiting.”

The cold suddenly getting to him, and forgetting the intake of smoke in his mouth for too long once again, Bilbo coughs as he drapes his overcoat tighter around his shoulders, and blinks away the daze.

  
  


“Indeed,” he admits in a little voice.

-

  
  


Disturbingly enough, darkness now helps Fili settle down. He is marching at the head of his group, him, Balin, Bifur, Bofur and the brothers Ri along with a couple of elves, Legolas among them, and the steady pace and cold air are doing wonders for his troubled mind. Soon, he is quite determined to speak to Kili and get rid of whatever problem they're having as soon as they're reunited. Deciding he's finally able to focus on the more pressing matters, he beckons for Ori, who speeds to catch up with him, and they inspect the map in torchlight provided by an elf towering over them, and maintaining a look of quiet confusion.

“What are you thinking?” Fili asks Ori, the others already peeking over their shoulders.

“We might get lucky if we find a tunnel here,” the youngest of their company traces a blank spot on the map, “by my thinking, another cave should pop up here. That's almost a half-circle of them...-”

“And a lot of sleeping spiders,” Bofur adds.

  
  


They continue, everybody impressed with Ori's ability to fill in the map swiftly as they go. Fili lingers behind with Legolas.

“This could take forever,” he tells the elven Prince, “you understand we need to persuade your Father to let us speed this up. We're getting a pretty decent idea of how the lair looks, we just need to come up with a plan of attack, and for that we need more than twelve dwarves – that is, of course, assuming you're serious about wanting this forest clean of spiders.”

Legolas is silent for a long time.

“We are serious,” he offers at last, “but I think... It's hard to say if...”

“...You can bad-mouth your Father in front of me, you know,” Fili supplies mockingly, “I won't tell him, don't worry.”

Legolas scoffs at him.

“It's not that. You don't understand what this forest has been through, what our kind has been through. My Father worries this will get out of hand, and we will unleash something we will not be able to control. He will not lose Mirkwood to the foul forces completely.”

“He's lost it to them already!” Fili retorts a bit more harshly than planned, so that a few of the others look back at them in confusion, and he waves at them to continue and speaks more quietly, “you really never learn, do you? This forest is _lost,_ unless you do something about it. Not wanting to fight out of the fear of losing is not the way, trust me.”

“Oh, save your speeches for my Father, please,” Legolas groans.

  
  


Fili opens his mouth to say some more, but the rest of the group come to halt. He grants the elf one more meaningful look, and trots ahead to see what's going on.

“Look,” Ori exclaims excitedly.

It's a crossroads of sorts, the left turn once again ending in a black mass of nothing, and the right sloping down at an angle that suggests it leads to whatever is in the center of the lair. Ori updates the map quickly, and they're about to set out, when Bofur mumbles: “Hold on. Do you hear that?”

They still and listen.

“A river?” Legolas offers.

But the murmur is of something else – steady, dull, as if a thousand tiny feet are patting across the walls... Before Fili can say anything, Bifur flips his spear in his hands, and drives the handle of it sharply up. It bangs at the ceiling and the sound is entirely unexpected, echoing, like a deep-mine drum, and they listen to it carry, breathless.

“ _Hazal kirunkad,_ ” Bifur offers, and the silence in the next second is deafening.

A handful of dust rains from the ceiling of the tunnel into their hair.

“Weapons,” Fili orders tensely.

  
  


And then the walls come alive, the murmur gaining in volume thousandfold, rising into a steady hum, and the elves swivel, eyes frightened and darting, but it is impossible to pinpoint where the sound is coming from – it's above them, below their feet, ahead and behind them.

“We need to return!” Legolas has to raise his voice.

“No!” Ori exclaims, to everybody’s surprise, then adds hastily as they're all preparing to run anyway, “no, listen to me! We need to go down there!”

“Ori, I'm pretty sure we need to get up to the surface again!” Fili retorts.

“No, please, listen – they're moving through the tunnels!” the youngest dwarf shouts to be heard, “above us, and behind us, and there's a hundred of them waking up in the cave we just passed! We don't stand a chance if we return the same way we came from, they will have every passage blocked! We need to outrun them!”

“Outrun a thousand angry spiders in their own lair?!” Bofur cries desperately.

“Are you _sure_ we'll get out of here?” Fili demands.

“Of course not!”

Just then, the first few spiders climb the walls of the cave behind them and make their way into the tunnel, only to be slain swiftly by the elves. Fili groans.

“ _Run!_ ”

  
  


He wishes later that everybody hadn't listened to him. He wishes they had fought their way back up, and managed to go back to the Halls, and forget about the spiders altogether, and most of all, he wishes they had never entered this forsaken forest at all in the first place. He allows himself these split-second, childish hopes only when he's very very exasperated, and they help momentarily, just like complaining always does.

The elves are absolutely useless – trying to fend off the enemy coming from behind, and keep up the tempo at the same time, often sends them stumbling, and even dropping the precious torches until the dwarves seize the rest. The tunnel Ori made them follow begins sloping down at a dangerous angle, and as Fili struggles not to lose the ground under his feet, he notices water trickles down the walls and the floor, just a few drops at first, then tiny silvery paths. The roar of the underground coming alive is almost deafening now, as if the walls are going to cave in and the whole mountain over their heads shift and crumble down.

At last they come to another crossing, three paths, and the choice is obvious instantly – only the middle one isn't blocked by a hundred furious beasts coming at them at full speed. They yell at the elves not to try to fight and they speed on – the tunnel is incomparably wider now, the ceiling up high, and water literally rains down on them every now and then, curtains of it falling from Mahal knows where.

“They're slowing down!” Legolas shouts from the tail of the group, “the spiders! It's as if they're reluctant to follow us anymore!”

“Makes you wonder where we're headed,” Bofur declares.

  
  


The hum of the spiders swarming in their tunnels is slowly fading, replaced by a different sound, a distant roar, and, almost unanimously, they slow down from a sprint to a trot.

“Any idea what could be ahead?” Fili inquires, for anyone willing to reply, really.

“A whole lot of water?” Nori ventures.

“Another waterfall, probably,” Balin offers.

“Also more imminent danger, with our luck,” Bofur adds, somewhat breathless.

  
  


More light gradually fills the tunnel, and every now and then, strange, pallid plants grow up high by the ceiling – they almost look as if they're moving, curled and creeping down the walls, forming what looks like a fragile net at places.

“Can you smell it?” Legolas supplies, and the other elves affirm it.

“What is it?” Fili demands – the dwarves' sense of smell isn't by any means mediocre, but all he picks up on is a heavy dampness in the air, and a faint earthy scent.

“It's a... it's hard to describe,” Legolas replies somewhat hazily – they've slowed down completely now, no foes pursuing them anymore, and the elves have begun inspecting the walls of the tunnel, running their palms across them.

“It's the... the health of the soil,” he continues, picking up a small leaf, turning it over in his fingers, “we haven't felt anything so positive in this forest in so long. It is very... good.”

Next to him, Bofur makes a face, and Fili smirks and motions them to move on.

  
  


The waterfall is enormous – a white wall of water cuts off their path after some more walking, and there's so much of they can't see through, the rush of it so powerful a gentle mist soaks them as they stand by it. A narrow path leads around it, and they tread it carefully one by one, the air colder and infinitely fresher, and when they come to stand on a small plateau, Fili's heart skips a beat.

The view is an extraordinary one – the waterfall lands in a great lake deep below them, the water so clean the bottom can be seen closer to the shores. It spans the width of the cave before them – dwarves would in fact call it a dome. Dim light comes in through a chasm, a gap, on the far end of it, and the water glimmers and glints in it, silver reflections dancing on the bottom of a sort of another lake, like a second floor, and more of a pond compared to the one below it. A much gentler waterfall joins the two, and the whole cave is filled with the soft warble of it, and the dull echo of the roar of the large one.

They regard the scenery for a long while, dazed and amazed by it, and at last Ori pulls out his map.

“This can't be right,” he mumbles, “the lake is so wide, it takes up the whole of...”

His voice lodges in his throat, and without a warning, he runs ahead a bit and exclaims in awe as he looks at something on the wall behind them. They join him quickly, spurred by his excitement.

“Well I'll be damned,” Bofur breathes out.

  
  


In the tall wall there are tens of holes, some almost as large as the one they came through, others smaller, some too thin for anything but perhaps a hobbit to fit in.

“I don't understand,” Fili mutters, “do all the tunnels end here?”

“Surely not all of them,” Balin states, “but maybe the ones Bifur spoke of were not made by the spiders after all?”

“It must be,” Ori agrees, scribbling into his map with great dedication, “the spiders found this place, and they expanded on it, surely! Built their tunnels from here on, up and deeper into the mountains!”

“The question remains,” Legolas offers, “what, or who, built them?”

Silence follows, and they come to the edge of their plateau and strain their eyes to see any kind of movement in the water.

“Whatever it was, let's assume it's long gone,” Balin declares at last.

“I'm thinking we should make our way out of here,” Fili states, to a unanimous agreement of both dwarves and elves. 

A narrow path slopes down by the wall of the cave to the water's edge, and fortunately, the gap on the other side seems entirely reachable, and they make their way there, but Bifur lingers behind, pacing listlessly and gazing up onto the wall of holes as if mesmerized by it, mumbling to himself.

“...Bofur?” Fili beckons, and the old miner's cousin nods and makes his way to him, gripping his shoulder gently, ushering him to go on.

But Bifur begins gesticulating rapidly, explaining something in his language of hand motions and half-words, half-grunts. Bofur tries to quiet him down at first, but then seems intrigued by something only the two of them can understand at that point. Soon, he beckons for Ori to bring the map, the elves eying the whole situation impatiently, and a whole new discussion breaks out as the youngest dwarf is brought up to speed. At last, Fili marches over to them.

“Alright, what is going on?”

  
  


Both Bifur's and Bofur's faces are a grimace of professional excitement, and Ori's eyes are large as he drafts long arrows into the map. Bofur pats his cousin on the shoulder and declares: “Well, lads, I do believe we have a plan.”

  
  


It is simple, and reckless, and ridiculous, and the Elvenking will have none of it. He listens to their overview of it immediately after they return, his face an impenetrable facade of aloof calm.

“Well then, let me see if I've understood you quite well,” he says after Bofur's finished translating Bifur's frantic gesturing, aided by Ori waving the map about, and Fili attempting to keep them at bay, “you would... cave in all the entrances to the lair, trapping the spiders in it without escape. This involves... many explosions.”

“And the possibility of setting fire to the forest, yes,” Bofur supplies calmly, “but really, we've been doing cave-ins for a millennium, so nothing should go wrong, _in theory._ Of course, we need to take into consideration the fact that it's never been done outside of a mountain, much less a forest, and the resources will presumably barely meet the safety requirements, so really...-”

Fili is just about to shut Bofur up, gently but resolutely, seeing as the Elvenking's brows are beginning to furrow menacingly, when the other half of the company are ushered into the chamber by Tauriel. They look infinitely more beaten than Fili's group, dirty and bewildered, some still gripping their weapons. Fili raises an eyebrow at Kili, who shrugs, shakes his head, and looks away, his jaw set tight.

  
  


When they learn of the plan, the others rejoice and praise it quite highly until they're silenced by Thranduil.

“There is one more thing,” he declares, “there has been a missive from Esgaroth.”

He lets that sink in, until the dwarves are all but stomping with impatience. He makes a small, slow gesture with his hand then, fingers tapping on his smirking lips, and drawls: “It seems your Lonely Mountain has begun steaming sometime in the past days.”

This is met with an uproar, the dwarves talking over each other, a sudden zest and thirst for battle in their voices, while the elves merely look on somewhat tiredly. Fili steps closer to the throne, joined by Balin.

“This can only mean one thing – the dragon has woken,” the old dwarf states.

“Yes, I know,” Thranduil replies languidly.

“We need you to release us,” Fili says intently, and the elf smirks incredulously.

“I do believe we have an agreement I will have you honor first. Hear this-” he raises his voice and it silences the rest of the company with a power Fili is quite envious of, “if you believe you can succeed with your plan regarding the spiders, I will set you free, as we have agreed. If anything were to go wrong, mine will be a merciless retaliation. Are we understood?”

The dwarves quieten down until Fili can speak clearly for all of them.

“Understood. We will need to be provided with a list of supplies...”

He lingers behind with Balin as the others are sent away, and they discuss their needs and requirements, bickering over the exact terms of the deal and settling details for hours on end, and when they are finally dismissed, Fili is dizzy, his head spinning, his whole body in need of the soft of a bed.

Hope has been rekindled in the hearts of his kin, and they are already planning to speed to Erebor and deal with the dragon with their bare hands, and Fili is so exhausted he neglects to mention Thorin is still the one with the key to the mountain, and a thousand other mood-shattering details, and fortunately, his eyes close before he has the time to get upset about Kili still not uttering a single word to him.

-

  
  


It rains almost endlessly for days and days, from a persistent, unpleasant drizzle in the mornings, to thunderstorms that have Ludo bolting every window and door in fear of them being knocked in by the sheer force of the wind. It does manage to make some damage to the barn one night – they hear a great knock and a bang, and then the shattering of what can only be the thatches of the roof. Ludo curses and slaps his book close, jumping to the window to see the damage.

“Well, just our luck,” he groans, “the roof is done for. The hay's gettin' wet. Dammit!”

And he speeds out, followed by Thorin before Bilbo can protest, and they spend what might be hours covering the damage with a large oiled sheet, Bilbo and Tylda watching them from the veranda, lightning illuminating the dreary scene in sinister yellow-white glow every other minute.

They come back utterly drenched, but to large steaming cups of grog waiting for them, and the fire is fed all night to keep them warm.

  
  


“You've a cold,” Bilbo utters in between his reading out loud of Fillibald Took's adventures the next afternoon, when Thorin fails to mask a particularly nasty cough for about the twentieth time.

“Dwarves do not catch colds,” the King retorts gruffly, but sneezes so hard the next second Bilbo almost falls over off the bed.

“Now, that's just silly,” he scoffs, closing the book, “I'll make some tea to go with this.”

Thorin protests only very feebly, and later becomes instantly drowsy, the smell of herbs and honey filling the small bedroom completely. He burrows deep into his pillows and blankets, closing his eyes, the sight ridiculously amiable to the poor hobbit's eyes, and he decides to leave him then, to sleep it off, but the second he stops reading, Thorin blinks up at him to see what's wrong, and beckons him to continue. Bilbo shakes his head with a smile, and flips the page to see what the next chapter is about.

His voice fails him several times, but it matters not – Fillibald Took dedicates this portion of the book to his home, and describes it with such detail, such love, that Bilbo's heart fills with both comfort and longing quite quickly. He speaks of the end of the summer harvest, and the three-week celebration, the hundreds of bright colored flags in garlands from the top of one tent to another on the Great Eastern Meadow over Water, fluttering in the breeze like butterflies; of the river Brandywine becoming a deeper blue with the coming cold and the leaves of the trees beginning to flash with bright reds and oranges and yellows. He even mentions the inn in Westfarthings Bilbo knows so well, being built, and there is a small note of the Baggins family deciding to buy a large share of the Hill itself, which was apparently regarded a 'move of someone not entirely brisk of mind, if you catch my drift', and at that point, Bilbo is sure he must be grinning from ear to ear like an absolute fool, and indeed, when at last he stops reading for a moment to pour himself some tea, he finds Thorin watching him, features softened with something akin to gentle amusement.

“I... do believe I got a little carried away,” Bilbo mumbles, “sorry.”

Thorin smiles warmly.

“You had every reason to,” he replies kindly, and then, surprising the hobbit with the honesty of it, “I am sorry to say it hasn't occurred to me many times, but you must miss your home quite a lot.”

  
  


Bilbo regards him wordlessly for a moment, then sighs deeply, and smiles as well.

“Just as you miss yours, I suspect.” 

The days when he didn't think of it at all and instead found himself enjoying his current adventure quite a bit, wishing to see everything that's exciting in the world, rather than the green door of his hole, he will leave unmentioned.

“Hmm,” Thorin rumbles, “I do hope you will get to see it one day.”

Bilbo chokes on his tea a bit.

“I, erm, well, I'm sure I'll be quite... quite amazed,” he manages, “it will be quite something, compared to the Shire.”

“I liked the Shire well enough,” Thorin declares.

“...You did?” Bilbo wonders, then, teasing, “didn't you get lost there several times?”

“Yes, it gave me a lot of time to admire the scenery,” the King replies lightly, and Bilbo chuckles.

“I spent a lot of time in Bree in the days when we were building anew in the Blue Mountains,” Thorin continues, and then, somewhat somberly, “indeed you might say your lands were more of a home to me than the Lonely Mountain ever was. I certainly lived there much longer than Erebor itself.”

Bilbo watches him run his fingers absentmindedly over the large key hung around his neck, and he feels an unease, and a quiet pity.

“...But Erebor is your _home,_ ” he tells the dwarf earnestly, and is pleased with himself when Thorin turns to look at him, “it might not be where you spent most of your life, but, you see, as any hobbit will tell you... Well, it's quite silly, it's actually from a lullaby, but... home is where your heart is.”

  
  


Thorin simply gazes at him for the longest time, eyes glinting and unreadable, the quiet whisper of rain from the outside the only sound in the dark room. At last his features spread in a smile.

“That is silly,” he chuckles, and Bilbo breathes again.

He is about to return to the book, when the King reaches for his cup of tea, and a muffled wince escapes his lips.

“What is it?” Bilbo demands.

“Nothing,” Thorin sighs, then, more intently as Bilbo hops off his stool, “nothing at all, really.”

“Well, your 'nothing' will keep you bedridden, if you don't let me see it.”

Thorin frowns, but pulls his blanket away, rolling up his shirt obediently. A fortunately small red spot tints the bandages, but still, the wound should not be bleeding at all anymore.

“Honestly, this is ridiculous,” Bilbo grumbles as he uncovers the wound, “how you ever presume to set out again, while you keep pushing yourself like this, is beyond me. You once told me I'm too eager for my own good, but I do believe it applies to you as well!”

He mumbles and mutters to distract himself as the span of Thorin's bare chest comes to his view, the scar still reddened, but calmed down, the stitches ready to be taken out any day now. Bilbo proceeds to clean the blood from one of the bigger scabs scraped loose, and yet again he makes a note to himself of how used he is to it all now.

“I am grateful for your care, you know that,” the King says gently, but intently, and Bilbo looks up into his eyes, cheeks flushing.

'It's nothing,” he supplies, “well... not entirely nothing, but I am glad to do it. I mean...”

“Well, excellent. That said,” Thorin continues somewhat mockingly, “I do think I'm fit enough now to tend to myself.”

“Oh,” Bilbo breathes out, then, feeling somewhat giddy for whatever reason, “oh! Be my guest and tend to yourself, then!”

  
  


He sits back in the foot of the bed, and Thorin frowns at him for a moment, but then goes about bandaging his own torso. Bilbo strains himself not to interject, seeing as he's doing it all wrong, but still, his hands fly ahead inadvertently once or twice, and the dwarf scoffs.

“I can manage.”

“Yes, but you should have started from the back, this way you will not be able to tie it up properly!”

“Oh, of course I will be able to tie it up properly! See? There you go, I... _ouch,_ oh _in Durin's name..._ ”

The King struggles with the bandage's end somewhere on the small of his back, and Bilbo is quite enjoying his grimaces of ill-concealed dismay.

“...Would you like some help?” he utters.

“No,” comes a stern reply, and then, after some more fiddling, “do you have some sort of special way of tying this? Because I swear, it just keeps slipping out of my grasp...”

“Yes, in fact, I do,” Bilbo replies happily, and leans back.

Thorin struggles, then looks on him, then struggles some more. At last, he gives up, brushing his hair away from his face with the back of his hand, and regards the hobbit, almost ashamed.

“I do believe I could use your... expertise,” he admits in a little voice, and Bilbo chuckles and climbs over to him, fixing the bandage in a few quick moves.

“There. I will have you know, I'm sorely regretting not having 'care-taking' covered properly in our original contract.” 

Thorin smirks after he pulls his shirt back on.

“I can always draft a new one,” he supplies.

“Really?” Bilbo laughs, “do nurses get a bigger share of the spoils?”

Thorin laughs earnestly.

“Well, the King's personal physician certainly does.”

Bilbo _pfft_ 's.

“Oh, is that what I am now? I think I'll stick to burglar, thank you very much!”

  
  


Thorin grants him a fond smile, and Bilbo realizes then that he's still sitting but a few inches away. Now is probably not the time to be thinking what he's thinking, and he resents himself for it, for this ability to joke around while still feeling this... this ache –he hangs his head, which Thorin misinterprets entirely. One heavy hand rests on his shoulder, entirely out of the blue, not helping Bilbo's frame of mind at all.

“I will see to it that you return home safely,” the King declares clearly, and Bilbo squishes his eyes close, then looks at him, and instantly wishes he didn't – the dwarf's gaze is piercing and intense, too strong for him to handle, he believes.

“I, oh, well, that's certainly very kind of you, really,” he stutters, and Thorin's hand is unmoving, even gripping slightly, and how is that fair?, “but I... well, I...”

“Yes?”

At last the King's hand slides off his shoulder, excruciatingly slowly, and poor confused Bilbo immediately wishes to forget the sensation altogether. Moreover, it seems that Thorin will not let this go. Bilbo sighs desperately as he continues watching him, eyebrows raised in a question.

“I just... You see, it's that...” he starts over and over, then at last, somewhat weakly, “I can't quite imagine what will be of me. If- _when_ we do get to Erebor, I mean. You will become King, and you will be home, and I...”

“And you will be rewarded justly for all your trouble, and then some,” Thorin interrupts him steadfastly, “you will be celebrated for making the reclaiming of the Mountain possible at all in the first place. You will become a friend of the court, and you will be accommodated until you wish to return home. Then you will be granted whatever you may desire, and I will arrange for your homeward journey to be a safe one – and then you will see the Shire again.”

  
  


Bilbo gapes at him, at a loss for words for the longest time, and feels a sharp ache rising in his throat, and tries his damnedest to swallow it and _not_ cry when the King grants him another smile.

“...Or is that not what you want?” he offers, and later, Bilbo thinks he should've told him then.

That no, it isn't what he wants, and _how can you ask me to just_ go home _? What on earth will I do home? How will I ever live comfortably again, with these memories swirling in my head every time I lay down to sleep? How do you ever expect me to find peace all on my own, when I was once willing to see it in the least likely company of all?_

_How will I ever want anything more than to be by your side?_

He does cry then, a few cold tears trickling down his cheeks before he regains his composure at least a little bit, turning away.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles, making to get up, “oh, I'm sorry.”

But Thorin's hand on his shoulder (oh, again, not again) stops him dead, and he forces himself to remain calm despite the deafening roar of his frantic heart hammering against his ribcage, as he looks at the King – and damn and curse his momentary resolutions, because Thorin's face is overcome with such genuine worry and concern, Bilbo finds himself losing any control he has left.

“What is wrong?” the King demands to know, “what would you possibly need to apologize for?”

  
  


And Bilbo knows then, knows that he has lost his struggle, and he doesn't care, and it's rather blissful really, for at least those few short moments.

“Well, for starters,” he breathes out, a sudden weight lifted off his chest, “this.”

  
  


It's shockingly easy, covering the distance. All he can hear is the ruffling of fabric and the gentle creak of the bed as weight shifts, and if Thorin is unprepared, his lips don't translate it – they're infinitely soft, and a small, ragged gasp escapes them, and Bilbo knows he only has so much time, because then the King's hands come up to cup his cheeks, tenderly, and his chest swells almost painfully at the fleeting sensation, and then it is over, he breaks the kiss.

And Bilbo knows. Oh, he knows then, everything becomes so frightfully clear – and yet he feels nothing but a strange dullness in his lungs and his throat. Thorin hangs his head until his eyes are nothing but pitch black shadows in the night filling the bedroom, and the journey from his bed and away is lengthwise as excruciating and tedious to Bilbo as his whole adventure up to now. His feet pat on the all-too cold ground, and he smiles weakly, even though the dwarf will not see it.

“I'm sorry,” he repeats for what feels like the hundredth time that evening, “I really am just a... a hobbit out of his hole and out of his depth, you see.”

The King looks up at last, in his eyes a mixture of sadness and something Bilbo classifies as fright, and he cannot, cannot bear it and is about to run off, refusing to let Thorin see his face crumbling in pain, but there's a fleeting grasp on his elbow, that almost makes his knees buckle.

“I cannot,” the King breathes out hoarsely, and Bilbo smiles to himself, and he's not going to turn back to look at Thorin now, oh surely, because tears are streaming down his face in a hardly presentable manner.

“Oh, I know,” he replies gently, “I know. And really, I'm sorry. We will... I will... Whenever you're ready, we can set out – _you_ can set out, I...”

  
  


Deciding at last that he's done enough damage, he swallows whatever he has left to say, brushes a hand over his face, and walks out of the room, never looking at Thorin again, and it's done with just like that, and he almost manages to be grateful for the simplicity of it, because it is obviously easier and more agreeable than admitting to himself the tragedy of it, thank you very much.

-

  
  


Fili thinks he hasn't had this much trouble catching his brother since Kili was twelve years old and learned to jump up any tree in his way with impressive speed. This time, he is avoiding Fili outright, not making any sort of effort to conceal it, either – he spends his time with the elves, often away from the rest of the company, and when Fili is the one to discuss the requirements of the plan with Bifur and Bofur in the elves' storage rooms, Kili takes Ori to the forest for scouting duty, to complete the map. Anytime Fili's presence is requested in the throne chambers long into the night, Kili is asleep, or at least pretends to be, when he returns. When Fili moves right, Kili shifts left. It's infuriating, exhausting and saddening at the same time, and there's only so much of it Fili is willing to take.

That is why, one evening in the hot springs – Kili has a habit of lingering after most of the company have gone – Fili makes to walk away with the rest, but merely waits in the hallway for a healthy minute or five, and then goes back in. He falters – Kili is resting, his eyes closed and head leaning on the tiling of the large steaming tub, and a pang of pain seizes Fili.

“Did you forget something?” his brother surprises him.

“What do you think?” Fili offers gently, and Kili chuckles bitterly.

“I don't want to talk,” he utters.

“I know,” Fili says, watching as he gets up and gathers his garments, “but you're going to talk anyway.”

“Why?” comes an almost childishly taunting moan.

“Because I'm worried.”

  
  


Kili stops for a moment and simply glares at him, something uncharacteristically stone cold in his look, then shakes his head.

“Oh, you're worried,” he mumbles, “that's rich.”

Fili is fed up then, and strides to him swiftly.

“Would you just _stop,_ and tell me what's going on?” he hisses, and Kili frowns menacingly, his jaw set tight when he looks at him.

“Why don't _you_ tell _me?_ ” he growls.

“ _Kili._ ”

“No, you listen to me,” his brother shuts him up effectively with the urgency of his voice, “I know you're worried. Has it ever occurred to you, huh, that I know? You're so wound up in this big quest of yours, and you think you can handle this on your own, but you _can't,_ I know you can't! And you act like nothing's wrong, and you... you're the one who doesn't talk! Thorin's _gone,_ Fili, and you're walking around in his shoes, and you're hurting, I know it!”

Fili simply gapes at him, quite incapable of answering for a good long while, and Kili just stands there, chest heaving, the glint to his eyes nothing short of furious, and yet he appears so feeble, half-dressed, his arms clutching the bundle of his clothing almost desperately.

“...Is that what this is about?” Fili breathes out.

Kili looks away defiantly, and he takes a step closer.

“Because you've been avoiding me like I've done something horrible,” he speaks intently, “you practically run out of the room anytime I come in, and correct me if I'm wrong, but so far it seems like you'd much rather spend all your time with elven lady-warriors than your own kin.”

Kili snaps to glare at him, a naked hurt flashing in his eyes for a split second, but quickly replaced by something much more sinister.

“Oh, that's it, then?” he all but snarls, “you're _jealous?_ ”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Fili groans, “I'm just saying...-”

“Yes, I know what you're saying,” he's interrupted harshly, “stupid little Kili. You don't understand my oh so horrendous everyday struggle, and how could you, you naïve little thing? Can't you see I don't have time for your silly little issues? And now you have the audacity to not pay attention to me your every waking _second_ , and you expect me to-”

“Alright, that's _enough,_ ” Fili cuts him off.

Kili smirks almost evilly, and a shiver runs up Fili's spine – what was supposed to be a conversation to set things straight, is quickly slipping out of his grasp and transforming into something he's not quite sure he can handle.

  
  


“I'm sorry,” he says earnestly, but Kili merely chuckles sardonically, and so he presses on, with more intensity, “you were right. I was jealous. It was stupid, but I was, because I need you, I need you by my side. I _can't_ do this alone – I'm scared and I'm lost, and Mahal knows if I could let anyone else do it, I would. But Thorin wanted for this company to stick together, and that's what I'm trying to do, to my best knowledge – keep us together. My head hurts, and I have never been so worried in my life, and I'm sorry if I overlooked your... your problems, but honestly, if I find myself in trouble with you, too, how could I possibly go on?”

Kili merely gazes at him, his face entirely serene and unreadable for once, and he seems to Fili much more adult than he's ever seen him, and it makes his heart ache and his skin crawl.

“It might be time for you to find out,” his brother says than, and it is like a punch in the gut, entirely unexpected in its cold cruelty, and Kili turns to walk away.

“I'm sorry,” Fili repeats, nothing but a breathless sigh, though he wants to scream it instead, “please, Kili. Talk to me. Tell me how to fix this. Don't...”

He _was_ going to say 'Don't walk away', but it's too late, his brother is swallowed by the suddenly hostile darkness of the elven palace, and soon, his footsteps fade as well, and the steam still rising from the bath below his feet does nothing for the cold Fili feels.

-

  
  


Bilbo allows himself one day, and one day only, of sulking, re-evaluating his entire a life, and perhaps weeping a little, late into the night. He sneaks around the house in childish fear of encountering Thorin, but fortunately it seems the King has adopted the same strategy – masterfully avoiding each other is the best option for now. Matylda does ask him what's wrong, but lets the matter rest, bless her, when she receives a very vague answer at best. Bilbo finds her company most supportive at this time, as she reminds him with her mere presence that he is still, after all, a hobbit, and no hobbit can ever despair for long.

He knows a time will come when one of them will have something to say about the... unfortunate affair, but so far, he is terrified of both the idea that he should speak up first, and the off-chance that Thorin feels like conversing any time soon – this silly, inconvenient fright manages to utterly paralyze him at times, mainly before he goes to bed, and he even starts making himself hot milk with honey in the evenings, something that his Mother would use when he was too excited to fall asleep as a child.

  
  


Ludo spends a lot of time away in the forest, hauling back so much wood it looks like they're going to start building a whole new mill, but the current one still needs a lot of work before winter comes, and Bilbo doesn't even have to beg Tylda to let him help her, she asks for it herself. And so he spends most of his time bent over the flowerbeds, or caring for the trees in the orchard, and he only ever goes into the house to eat, and returns for good when all that's left of the sun is a hazy stripe of purple over the black horizon, his cheeks whipped red by the increasing chill.

He doesn't remember, doesn't see it, until one late afternoon, when he returns to the house via the back porch, and he hears faint, beautiful music.

“Ludo found an old harp in the attic today,” Matylda startles him, appearing at the door, her voice mellow so as not to interrupt the somber flow of the melody, “it's tiny, and in a rather horrible state, but you should have seen Thorin when we gave it to him... well,” she stops herself, probably at the sight of Bilbo's grimace, “he seemed quite... quite glad. Did you know he played?”

“No,” Bilbo breathes out, and she grants him a kind smile, and walks back into the house, and he was going to follow her, really, he was, but he changes his mind in a split second, and tiptoes around the corner, the new planks under his feet fortunately creaking only very little.

  
  


Thorin sits in the rocking chair, a hunched figure somehow appearing much smaller than usual, even with a large fur slung over his shoulders, and the sky behind him is tinted with the reds and pinks of late-autumn dusk, and the song he plays is unknown to the hobbit, and yet it stirs something all-too familiar within him, an age-old longing. It finishes naturally, or so it seems to Bilbo's ears, somewhat untrained in music in general, and the sounds of the nature seep back in, the buzz of insects and the gentle breeze swaying the long grass on the meadows, and the clinking of cutlery from Matylda's kitchen, suddenly too harsh.

“Durin's Day,” is all that Thorin says, hoarsely, one hand gesturing weakly over the sky, and Bilbo sees it then, and it steals his breath away.

The sun is still there, glimmers an ethereal, bright orange as it sinks slowly, and beside it hangs the pale orb of the moon, like an intruder, a moth drawn to a flame. Bilbo knows then he should say something, if not that day, then all the others after that when the two swim in the blue together even during daytime, but he cannot bring himself to it, the sight making him quite literally speechless and more than a little desperate. 

Bilbo and the King sit outside, smoking, or reading, or simply stargazing, but never together, though they both know the other one is just around the corner, and if ever the hobbit feels an intense urgency to trot over there and speak a reassuring word or two to the dwarf, he swallows it along with his tea, and for the first time in ages, he really properly misses home.

  
  


He doesn't go as far as to regret ever coming on this adventure, since he's not in the business of frowning over what's done and cannot be undone, but homesickness, well, that's an entirely different matter.

-

  
  


They only get to see it because the preparations for the final part of the plan require setting up camps close by every single entrance to the spider lair, which in turns means a tedious two-day trip high into the mountains, where they've discovered a few unused tunnels, which they're going to use as the main site. Elves are scattered over the forest below them, each group ready to deploy the explosive devices Bifur with Bofur spent such a long time developing, and they're now only waiting for the dwarves to join them.

“Alright lads,” Bofur commands, “each take a flare, a swig of whatever warms you up, and an elf or two, and hurry to your groups. Don't get killed along the way, and please, for Mahal's sake, don't lose the firecrackers. Fili will be waiting up here to seal the deal, and you... well, basic rule number one of mining, when you hear a boom, run. Good luck.”

He's granted a few nervous laughs and grumbles, and, to Fili's surprise, the silence that follows is somehow aimed at him. Balin blinks at him.

“Right,” he starts uneasily, “well... This is our chance to get out of this damned forest, and back on the road to Erebor. We still have a quest to finish, so let's deal with this swiftly and for good. I trust Bifur and Bofur know what they're doing...”

He receives a grin from Bofur, and is about to continue, when he notices Ori, looking away somewhere, doe-eyed, almost frozen. He follows his gaze, and the others do as well in the end – they fall silent again, this time much heavier.

“Is that what I think it is?” Bofur breathes out quite pointlessly, while the elves regard them with some confusion as they huddle closer together, staring at the early morning sky, revealed for a few fleeting moments between the highest treetops.

“Durin's Day is upon us,” Oin affirms gruffly.

Their mouths hang agape and all is forgotten at the sight, the sun and moon beside each other, veiled by heavy clouds, but still visible. The energy leaking out of them and their zest dissipating is almost tangible then. Fili stands next to Kili, their shoulders all but brushing, and he resists vehemently the urge to wrap his arm around his brother (whether to support him, or himself, he's not entirely sure). But Kili decides for him, groaning in exasperation and walking away, and far from the company.

“We're done for,” someone mumbles, and it spreads like wildfire, desperation and dark thoughts addling their minds.

  
  


“No,” Fili mutters, then, louder, not entirely sure what he's doing or if what he's doing will have any impact whatsoever, “no. Listen. Hey! So Durin's Day is past us. We didn't even know about its power when we first set out on this quest! Thorin didn't know, and he was willing to lead us to the Mountain anyway, and retake it with his bare hands if need be, and that's what we're going to do! Stop staring at the sky, stop wasting your time with gloomy thoughts, and _in Durin's name,_ stop thinking one age-old rhyme is the only thing that can help us claim what is ours. We can do this, not because we have a key and a map that glows, but because once we set our minds to something, there is _nothing_ that can stop us! We will get out of this forest, and we will go to Erebor and we will reclaim the Mountain, dragon or not!”

Mostly fueled by an almost bitterly desperate rage at that point, Fili doesn't expect any reaction at all, least of all a few weak cheers. But they echo nevertheless, and Balin's smile is that of approval, with quite a hint of sentiment, and even Kili watches him now. He feels a sharp pain in his chest, and realizes his eyes are welling with tears, and it is probably then that all his bravado and determination have at last reached their limit, but he will push past it if it kills him.

“Go,” he orders them hoarsely, a stern gesture of his arm, “go! Let us be done with this.”

  
  


They scatter down the mountain one by one and disappear in the greenery and he wishes them luck, receiving many a pat on the shoulder. Kili doesn't but nod at him curtly and trot away swiftly, the sight of him with his bow at the ready and face determined making Fili almost nauseous with the longing to be at his side. Balin stops by, as he's the last to go.

“Your Uncle...-”

“I don't want to hear it,” Fili cuts him off immediately, “I lied through my teeth, and my Uncle would scold me like a whelp for it.”

Balin merely chuckles, waving at his elven escort, who are becoming impatient.

“Oh, lad,” he says kindly, “I'm sure he would be quite proud. Certainly, you would hear much more complaining and speeches full of doom regarding Durin's Day from him. You did well. You kept us together.”

“But what for?” Fili sighs, “we cannot wrestle a dragon, Balin, you know that. And that's assuming we ever get out of here.”

“We _are_ getting out of here, right now,” he replies steadfastly, “and you said it yourself – dragon or not, we will get to Erebor. We might not be able to fight him, but as long as we _think_ we are, we're alright.”

“Balin, I have no strength left within me for your riddles,” Fili breathes out, not without a small smile, and it earns him a laugh.

The old dwarf squeezes his shoulder one last time before he goes, and declares almost cheerfully: “That's exactly what your Uncle used to say to me.”

  
  


Fili allows himself a moment of true weakness then as even his mentor leaves him, sitting atop of a rock, alone but for the elf guarding the entrance, but he only has time to brush his hands over his face, exhaustion overpowering him, before he hears, extremely close by: “Are we quite ready?”

His eyes flutter open and he almost topples from his sitting place, as Legolas is crouching right in front of him. He jumps to his feet, and scoffs at him.

“The roads are safe?”

“More or less,” the elf says, “the spiders know we're up to something nevertheless. We need to be quick.”

Fili nods, and side by side, they stand at the edge of the mountain, the whole of Mirkwood spreading below them. 

“Well,” Legolas speaks, nothing left to do but wait, “I would thank you, because I doubt my Father will ever be in the mood.”

Fili raises an eyebrow.

“Don't thank me yet. We're far from finished.”

“Still,” the elf folds his hands behind his back, regarding Fili somewhat stiffly, “you... well... I suspect our forest would be...”

“Oh, don't overwhelm me with the gratitude,” Fili laughs, and Legolas almost smirks, and then, at last the first flare paints the darkness below them in red – the first group is ready.

  
  


The others follow, ten crimson pools of light in quick succession, and Fili grabs the torch waiting for him and assumes his position – Legolas nods at him curtly and lights their own flare, and it arches up high and dives into the sea of black. Fili sets fire to the fuse, a string drenched in the elves' ale (he still remembers Bifur and Bofur bickering about it and cursing the elves for not storing any proper kind of alcohol) which snakes on the ground and into the mouth of the tunnel ahead, and it flickers ablaze, the flame traveling with almost frightening speed, and Fili runs.

The explosion still catches him, just as he's sliding to cover beside Legolas, and it almost knocks all air out of his lungs. The others follow like distant echoes of drums, and the sound carries even as Legolas and Fili scramble to their feet again. But other than that, everything is ominously silent. Fili goes to inspect the entrance to the cave – it's sealed perfectly. Legolas scrutinizes the treetops below them, but save a few flocks of startled birds, everything is calm. It almost seems too easy, really.

They leave the guard at the site, and dive into the forest quickly – they gather almost every member of the company without encountering a single spider, or any other kind of danger, and yet, a vague unease nags at the back of Fili's neck, like a premonition. They press on through the forest, quite a large group indeed, when the first elf comes, appearing out of nowhere lightning-quick, bewildered, muttering a few words to Legolas, who glares at him blankly, then breaks into a run out of the blue.

“What?” they shout after him, “what is it?”

“Oh, damned pointy-eared twig eaters,” Dwalin growls, and they pursue the elves.

  
  


And the damage... well, they can smell before they can see it. A putrid stench fills the air, like something rotten being uncovered from below a rock, and what was a light mist at first, soon turns into smoke, snaking and curling heavily between the trees.

“A fire,” someone states the frighteningly obvious.

Kili, Ori and Bofur are still missing from the company, and they delve deeper in without second thought, and pay no mind to the elves they encounter, ordering them to retreat... Kili comes running first, a faint figure in the thick haze, shouting for help, and they follow him, and a ravine comes up, and below it...

The flames are granted an eerie shade of red in the dark of the forest, and they spread almost languidly, but persistently nevertheless. They can see the almost laughably small figures of their comrades making way for the hill, Ori supporting an obviously injured Bofur, and they make to go down there as one.

“No!” Legolas orders, and a stray waft of wind finds its way through the foliage then, sending the smoke their way, prickling in their eyes, “we must make for the Halls!”

“It will not go up the ravine!” someone offers, “with some luck...”

“They'll burn down there!” Fili exclaims, “does anyone have a rope?”

It is produced and tied around a tree, and then it's pulling and more pulling to hoist the two up, wood beginning to crack and heat rising. When they are done, the fire below them has grown from flames licking at the trunks of trees into a roaring, violent monster, hacking its way through the forest one tree after another.

  
  


“Well,” Bofur breathes out, his hat singed and a desperate sardonic grin spreading over his face, “not exactly according to plan, eh?”

-

  
  


He is shaken awake in what might very well be the middle of the night, judging by the reluctance with which his eyes blink open.

“W-what?” he mutters, “what... Oh, Matylda? What is it?”

She sits at the side of his bed, and the tense lines around her eyes wake him up some more.

“What _is it?_ ” he demands.

“Oh, Bilbo,” she hangs her head, “oh, I'm so sorry. It's... Thorin. He's gone.”

He merely gapes at her for the longest time, absolutely confused, not even sure he heard her right. He rakes his hand through his hair.

“...Gone?” he mumbles, “what do you mean? Gone where?”

“I don't know,” she responds desperately, “really, I... I'm sorry...”

  
  


Bilbo gets up past her, his head spinning a little, and makes his way to the bedroom next door. His heart sinks deep at the sight of the bed, made-up, and the chair where Thorin's armor and garments rested, empty – then he notices the old, beaten volume laying on the pillow.

  
  


It is the copy of _My Times With The Dwarves_ they would read at night, and Bilbo feels a thoroughly bitter pain rising in his chest, the urge to either bark a dry laugh or a muffled sob, he knows not which. There is even a piece of paper folded under the book, and his hands do not shake at all as he unfolds it.

  
  


_Master Baggins,_

_I have decided to take my leave. I have faith that you will understand my reasons, as you have proven many times in the past that you possess quite the knack for it. I do not require you to follow me – you have more than done your part in this quest. As for the matter of your payment, let it be known that if Erebor is ever reclaimed with all her riches, you will be informed promptly, and your share of the spoils will be shipped to you at haste._

_I trust you will remain in health and merriment wherever it is you choose to go,_

_Faithfully yours and eternally grateful,_

_Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain_

  
  


Bilbo stands stock still, clutching the paper a tad too hard, for the span of about a heartbeat, before he swivels around, startling Matylda who stands at the door.

“Any idea when he left?” he demands, voice shaking with dull rage he didn't know he felt until a second ago.

“...Couldn't have been long,” Tylda replies meekly, “I went to feed the chickens before sunrise and met him in the kitchen, he said he was just out for some water, and he was still in his night dress, and I didn't know, Bilbo, I swear I didn't know...”

“No, it's not your fault,” he cuts her off, even managing a curt smile, “it really isn't.”

  
  


And then Bilbo Baggins runs, runs and grabs Sting along the way, and speeds down the stairs, almost tumbling down them, determined to run until he collides with Thorin Oakenshield and gives him a piece of his mind. But he clashes with Ludo instead, practically runs into the man, and he grabs him by the shoulders, a bewildered expression on his flushed face.

“Mirkwood,” he breathes out, and then notices his wife on the stairway, rushing after them, and his shoulders slump, “Mirkwood burns.”

  
  


And that is when the hobbit really sprints, and warnings are shouted after him, and he ignores them, dashing out of the house and over the yard, jumping over the fence, and oh, is he reminded of the first time he ran out of his hole to pursue adventure – but this time it's different, because what he's chasing after is much more... fleeting, and makes him much angrier, and more determined, and worried, all at once.

He sees the orange glow even before he reaches the point where the path winds down the hill, and his legs almost fail him when Mirkwood finally stretches below him. There is a pool of orange near the border and he can actually see it spread, flickering from tree to tree and getting closer to the meadow and Ludo’s hut. The fire is laughably small in comparison to the vastness of the whole forest, but still dark, heavy smoke rises high above the treetops where it is strongest, and the putrid smell of the black wood and dead leaves burning fills the air as the hobbit gets closer, because closer he needs to go.

He lets his legs carry him lightning-quick down the hill, and only before the bridge does he slow down and hesitate. Ludo and Matylda are yelling at him from up high, both waving his arms at him and probably begging him to turn back, but the roar of flames makes their words incomprehensible.

 

His grip on the hilt of his sword tightens, and off he goes – and clearly Thorin could have gone anywhere but back into Mirkwood, and clearly this is without a doubt the most reckless thing he's ever done, but something spurs him on despite all of it, something that is equal parts anger, and fear, and love.

 

The heat rises unbearably with every step he takes, and when he enters the forest, it almost stops him dead, along with the smell. His eyes are burning with the brightness of the flames, and he is sweating, and the road stretches ahead like a black ribbon in a pool of orange, and he follows it blindly, the fool he is, and he might be screaming Thorin's name at the top of his lungs, but he can't hear his own voice over the horror that surrounds him, and his throat is dry and his lungs heaving painfully.

And that's when he sees him, more of an instinct at first, a glint of something silvery at the very edge of his vision, and he realizes then with a dull dread how far into Mirkwood he's gone – and his adventure reaches a peak then, and indeed his heart almost jumps out of his chest, as a tree explodes not far by at all, shaking the ground below his feet. Fortunately, it spurs him back into action, and he sees then that it really is Thorin on the ground, and his rage (the most productive of all his emotions at that time, he decides for himself) is back in place by the time he reaches him.

“You!” he exclaims ferociously, the flames humming and roaring, providing an impressive background, “what do you _think_ you're doing?!”

 

“...Bilbo?” Thorin breathes out, and tries to scramble to his feet, but fails with a pained cry.

“Yes, it is me! Who did you expect? What is wrong with you?” the hobbit gushes.

“I... I think I broke my ankle...-”

“Oh, lovely, but I think I meant what is wrong with you _in general?_ What are you _doing?_ ”

 

Thorin blinks up at him in infuriating confusion, and Bilbo realizes he's crying, the salt of his tears burning his eyes in the heat, and his knees are scraped quite painfully from when he slid down to Thorin quite dramatically earlier.

“I – I thought you safer where you were, and I-”

“ _No!_ ” Bilbo shouts then, ignoring Thorin's wince as he grabs fistfuls of his coat, “I made you _a promise,_ you blasted idiot! I promised I would accompany you, and you... you _left me behind!_ How _dare you?!_ ”

Thorin’s eyes widen, and he gasps for air, the flames and mayhem around them forgotten for one second as his face twists into an uncomprehending grimace.

“I did swear your payment would reach you if we ever...”

“ _Payment?!_ ” Bilbo cries, the anger boiling under his skin wilder than the fire surrounding them, “this was never about payment, _please!_ ”

“What then?” Thorin retorts, attempting to gather himself up, but failing in pain, “what?”

  
  


And Bilbo is about to shout some more, to shake some sense into the wretched dwarf, but then another tree exploding shakes the ground beneath them and wafts the flames closer in their direction, and Bilbo springs to his feet.

“Come on, we need to get out of here,” and then, when the dwarf still stares at him, a pointed, “Thorin!”

“...My ankle is broken, in case you’ve forgotten,” Thorin huffs, as if waking up from a sort of haze.

Bilbo stretches a hand out to him.

“We’re getting out of this forest if I have to drag you out,” he orders, and after a while, the King accepts his hand carefully.

They almost topple back to the ground when Thorin leans on the small hobbit, but manage to find some sort of balance in the end.

“This will not do,” Thorin winces, “you’re not strong enough.”

“Oh would you _shut up,_ ” Bilbo scoffs, “I’m stronger than I look, Now please, let’s move!”

And move on they do, excruciatingly slowly, most of Thorin’s weight resting on the poor hobbit’s frame as he limps and drags his injured leg behind, sifting curses in his native language through his teeth. The light marking the end of the forest is there in the distance, like a beacon, but doesn’t seem to be getting any closer.

 

“Bilbo, I...” the dwarf attempts.

“Be quiet,” the hobbit retorts, “just... be quiet.”

“No, I... You...”

“ _Thorin,_ for all I'm worth, I'm warning you, I _will_ leave you here if you don't keep your mouth shut.”

“...You came back.”

 

Bilbo all but drops him then. He is fed up, he is sore, and what's more, he's quite sure he's going to die in this wretched, forsaken, horrible forest, and it's all Thorin's fault. To a degree. Quite a large degree.

“Yes, I did,” he growls, his hand gripping the King's shoulder hard, hoping to leave a mark, “and if you're going to ask why, I'm walking out of here, _alone,_ right now. Don't you dare presume anything about me, Thorin Oakenshield. Don't you dare make another sound, because the things you make me do, every single day, without your knowing, are enough to make my head hurt. You made me incapable of, of sitting by while you act like a stubborn mule, and if you cannot figure out why, then you'd best try to be at least a little grateful, because honestly, I think I-”

 

The last thing he sees are Thorin's eyes, large and shocked and icy blue, and then another tree explodes, or the whole world explodes, or the ground splits apart, he does not know – he is knocked off his feet with the power of a hundred orc hammers, and sent flying, and somehow, his last thought happens to be a very practical _Oh my poor, poor back,_ and then he's gone, just like that, and he would certainly think it unfair, if he could think anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go, I leave you with this beast of a chapter. I must admit I'm quite unsure of this one - it feels like it was written in a hurry, especially the last part, but you guys tell me if it transpires. Basically everyone's a royal idiot, excluding Bilbo, and Mirkwood can burn, who knew.  
> (I posted this at 2 am, quite stressed out and on a deadline regarding about fifty other things, so forgive me for any unintentional mistakes.)  
> Oh, and also, I'm leaving for another two weeks, this time with absolutely no time to write during, so the next chapter will come... oh, who knows when. I'm really very sorry to leave you with a cliffhanger like this...!


	5. The Benefit of the Doubt

Bilbo comes to the whole of two days after almost having burned to a crisp – without his knowing that, of course. The first sensation are his temples throbbing so powerfully it's as if his head is actually on fire – his eyes well with tears, and he can't bring himself to focus for the longest time. Then he registers the cold, fresh air brushing at his cheeks, and at last the blinding blurs of white and blue take the vague shape of a window flung open and curtains fluttering. He realizes he's back in his room at Harrow Mill, and he makes to sit up, but winces painfully when his body doesn't seem to want to cooperate, reminding him sharply of... what was it? Did he take a tumble? Fall from somewhere? Either way, his back is incredibly stiff, and it feels as if he's strained every single muscle, even those he's quite certain he never used.

He groans as he attempts to stretch his arms, and something shuffles, and he realizes he's not alone.

Thorin sits in an armchair by the bed, buried in furs, one leg strutted with what must be wooden sticks, heavily bandaged and propped up on a small stool, and judging by his slumped shoulders and eyes fluttering open slowly and darting across the room, he had been sleeping.

“...Bilbo,” he breathes out when he notices the hobbit glaring at him, and there’s an urgency in his voice that Bilbo thinks he deserves to be spared of.

He makes a move to get closer and opens his mouth to say some more, but Bilbo interrupts him with a hoarse “No.”, voice rasp, his throat burning, the foul taste of smoke lingering on his tongue. Thorin seems to sink deeper into the furs, curling up on himself. Bilbo turns away, looking out of the window, then closing his eyes against the shine that suddenly brings him pain.

“What happened?” he murmurs, “I thought we were going to burn alive.”

“That we almost did,” comes a reply after a moment, Thorin’s voice blissfully level, calm, “Ludo found us, carried us here. Brought the bridge down after him, for the river to protect the hill. The forest merely steams now, the smell is positively ripe. We both inhaled a lot of smoke, and were apparently very close to getting poisoned by the foul fumes.”

Despite their content, Thorin’s words almost lull Bilbo back to sleep, the deep voice like the rumble of a distant thunderstorm. He doesn’t have the capacity to be angry now, that will come later, so when Thorin grows silent, he turns his head back to him, eyes barely open, and mumbles, slumber fast approaching and making his voice heavy: “Don’t go anywhere.”

  
  


The whispered “I promise.” might as well be a dream.

-

 

To say that the Elvenking is enraged would be a vast understatement, and an underestimation of his capacities. The fire doesn't spread too far from the mountains in the end – eventually it turns out it was just one haphazardly laid fuse that caused it all – but still the air is thick with smoke and the putrid smell of Mirkwood burning when they reach the Halls, and the elves are in an uproar. Like ants, Fili can't help but think as they are ushered past them, groups speeding in all directions quite frantically. He feels nothing but a lingering exhaustion, dulling his senses and slowing his movements, even though he can very well guess at what's coming.

He lets Thranduil rise from his throne and roar at them in rage and condemn them for all time, because he simply does not possess the energy to resist. The image of the sun and the moon swimming in the sky side by side is burned in his mind, etched on his eyelids every time he closes them, and the feeling of failure deafens all else.

They are dismissed quite quickly, and they might be damned to rot in the Elvenking's dungeons for all eternity for all Fili knows, but he does not care. He does not care. He searches for the pale face of Balin among his comrades – they are led to their quarters in the old barracks, their guard fortified, their fate to be decided later as the elves have more pressing matters at hand – and the old dwarf grants him one reassuring pat on the back, but the gesture rings hollow with both of them.

 

None have the power or the need to talk, and silence spreads among the company – Fili buries his face into his pillow, a bit further away from the others, and sleep takes him lightning-quick, fortunately.

 

At last, he understands the fire in his dreams – it takes shape, licking the black trunks of trees and chasing long-legged creatures. He hears Thorin's voice again, calling to him, an order he knows he cannot carry out, and then he sees Kili, a tiny, frail figure against the raging mass of oranges and reds and yellows, and his cheeks are smudged with ashes, and Fili reaches to him, wants to catch his arm, but his brother turns and walks away and the fire swallows him, and the screaming coming out of Fili's mouth is utterly soundless.

He wakes up with the distinct feeling of _it's too late,_ and cold sweat down his back, and he wishes with all his might for a warmth that just doesn't come.

 

Their situation takes a turn for the dire in the next days – it is a small comfort that the Elvenking decides not to throw them into his prison, or outright execute them. No, it seems that he realizes that there is much more suffering for the dwarves to be found in stalling their homeward journey, and so the company are forced to work alongside the elves, cleaning up the aftermath of the fire throughout the forest.

They dare not come near the spider caves at first, but when they don't encounter a single foe for days, they finally brave inspecting further. Most of the entrances to the lair are sealed perfectly, and the few that are gaping open, are blissfully devoid of any inside activity. Fili accompanies Legolas to one of those one day, when something occurs to him.

“That gap we escaped through the other day,” he points out, “we didn't seal that one.”

The preparations were so rushed, the calculations close to haphazard, Fili remembers, that the matter of a possible escape route for the spiders was brought up once or twice and then forgotten in the ruckus – Bofur did mention something about the possibility of a natural cave-in, caused by the other explosions, but all in all, in the end they were depending on... what exactly? Sheer dumb luck?

 

The elf measures him wordlessly for a moment, then nods.

“Let's go see,” he states.

It is a long trek, and mostly silent for both parts – still, Fili is grateful. Legolas is possibly the only one who does not curse the company every time he lays eyes on them. It is a tad far-fetched to hope that he might smooth things over with his Father, but he was there every step of the plan, and so Fili wishes that at least he realizes it wasn't entirely the dwarves' fault.

The elf leads him by a different path than he remembers, and soon he hears the hum of water, and a brisk river dances below the next ravine they ascend. The trees part and Fili sees the end of Mirkwood for the first time, and it almost brings tears to his eyes, the rim between the dreary black of it, and the soft blue of the midday sky on the horizon.

“The Forest River,” Legolas supplies simply, “runs all the way to the Long Lake, and Esgaroth.”

“...I imagine you led me here for a reason?” Fili breathes out.

The elf smiles shortly and beckons him with a gesture of his hand, and they resume their journey, slowly now, merely walking, the river below them rushing over large rocks, swirling and bubbling almost cheerfully.

 

“That cave we found,” Legolas says, “it was possibly the only remnant of what this forest used to be. You laughed at us, but what we sensed when we entered it, was so pure... I don't think I can describe it well for your kin. It was like... like catching a scent you haven't smelled since childhood. I don't expect you to understand.”

Fili dreams of pines and grass and great pyres.

“I understand,” he offers, though he knows the elf will not believe him.

“My Father would be furious if he knew I let you destroy it.”

Fili blinks at him, but the elf's face is unreadable.

“...He didn't know about it?”

“He didn't. The last remnants of Greenwood. It's probably gone now – the water in the lakes disturbed by falling rocks and tainted by spider blood.”

His tone is perfectly level, and somehow manages to infuriate Fili.

“Then why did you let us go ahead with the plan?” he spits, “in the end it's as much your fault as ours that your precious Greenwood is gone!”

Legolas laughs then, shortly and almost kindly, and at last they reach a part of the forest Fili recognizes, if vaguely.

“It is not gone,” the elven prince states, gesturing over the scorched ground and the black trunks of trees, to Fili's disbelief, “and you know nothing. Farmers of men would burn their fields on purpose when they felt the earth needed rejuvenating, and new life would come out of the ashes. You have done this forest a great service, and even my Father will come to realize it in the end. Greenwood will be restored.”

 

Fili merely gapes at him, at a loss for words.

“I don't... I don't think I can in my right mind claim responsibility for this,” he mutters feebly.

“True,” Legolas smirks, “I'd say it was the most wonderful of accidents.”

“...Did you know?” Fili ventures, “did you know this would happen?”

“How could I?” the elf chuckles, eyebrows raised.

“But...”

“I knew what needed to be done,” Legolas says, “and in the end, it was a success. You rid the forest of spiders, and I will see to it that my Father holds his end of the bargain, you have my word.”

“...Thank you,” Fili sighs earnestly, “but if we leave now, or ten months from now, it doesn't really make a difference.”

“Your... deadline?” the elf offers.

“Durin's Day, yes. It has come and gone.”

“Forgive me, but how exactly does a mark in a calendar get you inside your mountain?”

Fili scoffs at him.

“We don't know. It was a prophecy, as vague as they get. There was a key... oh, it doesn't matter.”

Legolas merely smiles some more.

“What?” Fili demands, irritated.

“I just find it... peculiar, that you, such a... steadfast kind, would give up after one prophecy gone wrong.”

“You must be joking,” Fili growls, “coming from an elf, that's just ridiculous.”

“You were the one who made all the speeches about prevailing and battling evil,” Legolas replies lightly, “or are dwarves so fickle when it comes to their opinions?”

Fili scoffs at him.

“You know nothing,” he mimics him, in an almost desperately childish manner, but Legolas' response is only more laughter.

“I know some things,” he states, “I know that your only way out of here is to convince my Father that you are fighting for something important to you. _And-_ ” he raises his voice to quell Fili's mocking huff of laughter, “that there is something in it for him, as well.”

 

Fili measures the elf wordlessly for a moment.

“...Is that an advice?” he tries, and Legolas grants him an almost warm smile.

“It's a fact,” he says.

-

 

Bilbo is sick. Not physically, even though his body is aching overall, and no amount of herbal tea can chase away the taste of smoke from his tongue just yet – no, he's tired, bone-deep weary, of adventures, and unpredictable fires, and silly thickheaded dwarves, and he wants nothing more than to sleep, and possibly grab a bite or two in between. He is taken care of by Matylda with endless tenderness, and, fortunately, a lack of questions. She brings him soup and pies warm from the oven, and cherry jam, and he starts talking on his own, complaining unabashedly, and she simply sits in the foot of his bed, a small smile dancing on her lips, and lets him, just lets him.

 

He tells her his side of things, and she smiles solemnly. He talks about contracts and mountains and every single dwarf in the company, and she laughs until he starts laughing as well. He tells her he doesn't quite feel like talking to Thorin yet, and she says she understands. He tells her he wants to go home, and she doesn't believe him.

“Mark these words well, Bilbo Baggins,” she says in a tone he thinks he isn't going to have the frame of mind for any time soon, “you are too brave for your own good. Hobbits aren't meant to be heroic, we simply weren't made that way, and when we try, it only makes us miserable.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to say something, to protest perhaps, but she dismisses him, her hand raised in a stern gesture: “Some might say you and me are the exception proving the rule, what with the adventures we’ve been through. But I can safely say this – I only ever left the Shire because I wasn’t happy, and I only found happiness by my husband’s side, and it took years. Most hobbit-folk don’t dream of adventures and dangers, simply because they’re happy where they are. Clearly you and me weren’t.”

“I was happy in the Shire,” he almost pouts, then, more intently to counter her raised eyebrow, “I was!”

“No,” she says simply, “you were content. Happiness and lazy comfort are two very different things. You _knew_ there was something else waiting for you out there in the world, that's why you set out. And let me ask you – do you think you've found it?”

 

He spends an impossibly long time thinking. He ventures out into the meadows, now almost barren, cold wind bringing with it a tangible spike of winter and threatening to worm its way under his overcoat, and he just stands there and tries his damnedest to remember home, its warmth and its scent, but the image of it escapes him, smearing and fading like a watercolor painting in the rain.

...Thorin keeps his promise and stays at the house. Bilbo sometimes watches him limping about the backyard early in the morning, helping Ludo prepare for his work in the forest, and wishes he knew what to say to him – but just when he thinks he's figured it out, he sees the King napping in the rocking chair, or catches his gaze over the dinner table, and his stomach twists and his head spins, and he realizes he's not quite ready for any of it.

Which is why, one day when Ludo has not quite yet returned, and Matylda is gone far away in the orchard, he almost panics when Thorin approaches him in the kitchen – with his hands buried in particularly sticky dough, Bilbo has no means of an escape, and he watches almost breathlessly as the dwarf pours himself tea and sits at the table by the window.

 

“...I expect you're feeling better,” Thorin speaks after some uncomfortable silence, and it is such a ridiculous thing to say in Bilbo's mind, that he chuckles incredulously.

“I would say so, yes,” he replies stiffly, glad that his voice doesn't betray him.

“Good,” comes a gruff response, “I meant to... I think you should know that...”

“...Well, don't strain yourself,” Bilbo grumbles under his breath, eyes fixed solely on his hands working.

He hears what might very well be a scoff, and he groans, but it's less heartfelt than he'd thought – somehow, he feels a strange sort of relief, rather than anger.

“...Thank you for... coming for me,” Thorin mutters then, and it's so quiet Bilbo isn't sure he even heard him right.

His hands freeze for a split second, but then he shakes his head and resumes his work.

“Yes, well,” he says quite clearly, despite the turmoil in his head, “lately I've been known to do reckless and silly and dangerous things without any benefit whatsoever.”

He knows not how, but he summons the courage to look into the King's eyes then, and he is pleased to see his words have left a mark – but there is also something infinitely tender in the wrinkles fanning in the corners of Thorin's eyes, and it throws the hobbit entirely off balance, even more so when the dwarf smiles ever so gently.

 

Bilbo is ensnared by the sight and cannot quite find it within him to look away, feeling that maybe, the time has finally come to settle the score between them... Matylda enters the house through the back porch quite loudly, calling his name in need of help, and Bilbo almost gasps out loud as the moment is snapped in half. He quickly cleans his hands as best he can and hurries to help with the baskets of herbs and old apples to be used for cider, the hall filling with a pleasant concoction of all the smells, and when he returns to the kitchen a while later, chattering with Tylda about dinner plans, Thorin is still there, and it looks like he's been smiling the whole time.

 

The air clears considerably after that, and the hobbit and the dwarf can even be found in the same room at times, though there is still reasonable tension in their interactions. Bilbo, for all the Baggins in him, could exist like this forever, probably – forgetting every single one of those unpleasant things they said to each other, the horrible moments in the forest fading until they are but the shade of a distant nightmare. It is not in his blood to be angry for long, and for his part, he sometimes considers forgiving Thorin, and expecting nothing in return, before he reminds himself that the dwarf actually deserves at least a bit of ill will aimed at him.

His running off didn't exactly improve the King's condition – Bilbo resists the urge to ask Ludo about the state of his wounds, and _very definitely_ resists the urge to advise the man how to treat them. Instead he watches wordlessly as the dwarf pushes himself to his limits helping around the house, and very pointedly doesn't peek in when he passes his bedroom on his way to his own bed.

The situation quickly become insufferably intractable, and Bilbo only wishes he were a bit braver, a bit angrier, a bit more easily spurred into action. What was one of the things his Mother would always say when feeling the need to tease her husband, most often over lunch, causing Bungo to scoff at her? Ah, yes – _you know your cause is worth getting up when you're willing to forsake a major meal for it_. He didn't know much about causes then, and he doesn't think he knows much more now, but he's missed many a meal since this whole miserable business started, and though it's certainly not something an ordinary hobbit would deem healthy, it's made him into someone even his Mother would probably consider somewhat recklessly adventurous. He knows not why, but it makes him proud.

-

 

All in all, the dwarves are lucky. They offer their expertise and physical power in hauling the charred trunks of trees, and it soon becomes obvious they are far better at dealing with the work that needs to be done. The elves are incredibly slow, and often stop and all but wail over the loss of their precious greenery, until someone reminds them (not entirely gently) that it was all rotting away anyway.

It is a wonder that the forest burned at all in the first place, Fili thinks – the smell is still hardly bearable close to the mountains, caught under the thick foliage like a giant net, and the ground, though scorched, is muddy and slippery. And still no sign of spiders.

 

The Elvenking refuses to speak to them no matter how much they demand it – frankly, Fili can see how, on his part, the bargain wasn't an entirely successful one. It doesn't matter – all zest has dissipated from the company's plans, all thirst to see the end of their quest forgotten. Fili has no more fiery speeches up his sleeve, and it brings him only dull pain, bordering on irritation, to see that the others still turn to him for some sort of leadership.

He wants to tell them he has nothing to offer them – that he barely manages to keep his own wits together. He wants to yell at them that their King is gone, and that they're never going to see the Lonely Mountain, and that they're placing their trust in someone who is still at times too frightened to go to sleep. He feels like a child, stupid and irrelevant, and, with every look his brother doesn't reciprocate, increasingly more alone.

There are days when he wishes for nothing more but to get lost in Mirkwood, take a wrong turn and never come back to the Halls, let the fates play out without him. His world shrinks to his bed in the barracks, the small sitting room where he meets with Balin and Dwalin and the others to at least play at planning something, and the path to the hot springs, which they are by some miracle still allowed to use.

 

That is where Tauriel, of all the elven faces he'd rather be spared of, surprises him one day, even though he takes special care not to let very many know where he is.

“Good evening,” she says matter-of-factly.

“...Some privacy?” he all but flushes, and she smirks.

“I've seen worse,” she offers lightly.

He glares at her, and when she simply sits on a bench on the far end of the room, half-hidden in shadow, and remains quiet, he sighs.

“Is there something I can... _What_ are you doing here?”

“Your brother has been spending a lot of time with me,” comes a calm reply, that, however, sets an unpleasant weight in Fili's gut.

“...I'm aware of that,” he grumbles.

 

Kili is often seen in the elves' company, far more than any other dwarf of the group, and there are days when Fili barely meets him at all, save for meal time, and a few fleeting moments in the night before bed – he always fails to muster the courage to talk to him then, and falls asleep watching his back turned to him.

“He complains a great deal,” Tauriel supplies, sounding almost amused.

“He does that. It's one of his brighter qualities.”

“About you.”

 

Her eyes are like two gems glinting in the darkness of the steam-filled room, and for a while, the only sound is the slow shifting of water. Fili hugs his knees and closes his eyes.

“...Did he send you?” he murmurs.

Her laughter carries and bounces off the high ceilings.

“What are we, little girls gossiping?” she says, “no, I came myself because I've just about had enough.”

“...Of?”

“You!” she exclaims, and when he looks at her, she frowns at him, with a hint of a grin, “I want you up and out of this forest for good! You literally set it on fire, all eager to get out, and now you're just sitting around, doing nothing? It's infuriating!”

Fili gapes at her, utterly clueless.

“What are you... what are you saying to me? What does this have to do with Kili?”

She groans.

“Dwarves really are thickheaded,” she states, then, more seriously, “I'm saying go to the King, and convince him to let you go. Oh, and I'm not even pretending to _guess_ at what bad blood is between you two, but for crying out loud, _talk to your brother_ every once in a while. You might find he has quite the knack for finding his way out of the impossible. Him and the young one, what's his name, Ori? They've been walking around with a solid plan in their heads for days now, and I suspect none of you noticed in the least.”

“They... they have?” Fili wonders weakly.

“Yes,” she stands up, “ _talk to him._ Just because I want to be done with this, he's all yours for tomorrow, no duty in the forest. Make it count. I don't want to hear another complaint out of him as long as I live. I have patience for many things, but not that.”

“What _does_ he complain about?” Fili asks carefully.

 

She steps out of the shadows, arms crossed over her chest, her features stern, but deliberately soft around the edges, just enough for him to know she means well.

“ _Ask him yourself,_ ” she all but orders him, and walks away swiftly, and Fili is left with his own thoughts until the water provides no more warmth to his overworked muscles.

 

The next morning, most of the company are summoned to the forest once again, and some go about their business in the Halls themselves – for example Oin's medical knowledge astounded even the elven chemists, who now consult with him daily on Mahal knows what, and Ori has found a place in a library somewhere in the maze of the palace, where he helps the elves transcribe his map into their own records.

Fili wakes uncharacteristically late, as no one rouses him, and finds he is alone. Unused to the quiet, he's eating his breakfast slowly, trying to rub the weariness out of his eyes, when Kili stomps down the stairs.

“...Where is everyone?” he demands, almost angrily.

“...In the forest, I suppose?” Fili mumbles.

“Yes, obviously! Then why not me?”

 

It is almost relieving to hear his brother grumble without much restraint, probably forgetting for a moment that they're not speaking overmuch.

“What's going on?” Fili asks, almost gently, while Kili paces around the room.

“Oh, nothing! Nothing. I came with the others as usual, and was told to stay behind, I don't know...”

“...By Tauriel?”

Kili looks directly at him for the first time in what seems like centuries, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“...Yes.”

“Mhm.”

“Did you do this?” Kili demands intently, and Fili merely raises an eyebrow.

He certainly will not match his brother's energy today, even if he tries.

“Do what exactly?”

“Did you tell her to make me stay behind?”

“What... _Why_ would I do that?” Fili wonders.

His brother's irritation is bordering on anger, he can see that far too well, but for the moment, he's just grateful they're in the same room, talking. In a way.

“You said you were jealous,” Kili accuses him.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” Fili sighs.

“At least be truthful with me!”

 

Fili glares at Kili, and the sight of him is unfamiliar somehow – the lines of his face have changed, shifted, his jaw set sharper, eyes glinting oddly. They've never had such a long standing quarrel, as far as Fili remembers, and it seems to be taking its toll on both of them.

“The truth is,” he says softly, “Tauriel came to _me._ She told me she'd decided to leave you here today.”

Kili's face twists in an almost offended grimace.

“ _Why?_ ”

“She was... Well, I don't think I can go as far as to say she was worried, but... Well, apparently you and Ori have a plan you haven't told us about yet? ...I think she was just trying to help.”

He decides to omit the part about Kili confiding in Tauriel, as he feels it would be best not to betray whatever trust he'd put in the elf entirely. Still, his brother appears to be positively wounded.

“Oh, she was, was she? What else did she tell you?”

“Not much,” Fili replies calmly, “what did _you_ tell her?”

“Not much,” Kili retorts bitterly, and somehow, it manages to make Fili smile.

Childishly furious, he can handle.

“I see,” he says, “and the plan?”

“What plan?”

“...She seemed to think you've figured out a way to get us out of this rut. If that's the case, I'd appreciate it if you shared.”

“Is that an order?” Kili scoffs at him, and Fili blinks.

Some punching in the gut he can handle as well. Hopefully.

 

“No,” he sighs, “but look at us – we all need to get out of this god-forsaken place and back on the road, the sooner the better. I, for one, am all out of ideas. I'm tired, and I'm desperate. Please, Kili.”

The last sentences are not pertaining to the matter of their quest in the slightest, and both brothers know it.

“ _Now_ you're willing to listen,” Kili mumbles.

“I'm _sorry_ I didn't before, really, I...-”

“I don't want to hear it,” his brother states firmly, his gaze stern and steadfast, “not yet. Why don't you just keep your mouth shut and listen to me.”

The shiver that runs up Fili's spine has very little to do with anger, and a lot to do with yearning, but he obliges, and merely motions Kili to go on.

“You remember how Balin was willing to offer the Elvenking a sum of Erebor's riches in exchange for releasing us, right?” his brother offers, “right. Well, he declined _that_ offer, and we've since only made things harder on ourselves. But, unlike any of you, Ori and me have been listening to the elves, and it seems that some of them are not entirely happy with how their King is treating this whole situation. They think he's been keeping us for too long. They want us gone, because most of them are... well, it just seems to me like they're extremely lazy. They cherish their peace and quiet, and we're considered a disturbance, for obvious reasons. Moreover, there have been more news from Esgaroth.”

“Really?” Fili interrupts him, shocked, “how do you know this? Why didn't you say?”

“ _You didn't ask,_ ” Kili scowls at him, then, more seriously, “there's talk of danger. Some say the dragon has woken, and the men of Laketown are feeling unsafe, requesting support left and right. This includes the Elvenking. But he won't have it – from what I've gathered, neither he nor his kin are too keen on leaving Mirkwood any time soon.”

 

Fili gapes at him in mute amazement. He's never heard his brother speak like this – he never was one for decorum and diplomacy, barely managing to sit through the necessary lessons when they were children. What's more, he feels like he missed at least a decade's worth of development somewhere along the way – suddenly, Kili appears more mature, laying out facts with a surety Fili never thought he'd witness from him, and he can't help but wonder, not without a pang of guilt, if he was forced to become so because, just like Fili, he felt all alone.

“Alright,” he spurs Kili on, “which means...?”

“Which means,” Kili continues almost eagerly, “we must give him a reason to leave, and then follow. His soldiers are numerous, and yet they sit in these Halls for days on end, doing nothing. We must convince him that he wants to go to Esgaroth, and taking us with will be just a minor twist. Think about it – we've been holed up in here for _weeks._ He doesn't really care what happens to us now, but he also doesn't really care what's happening out there in the real world. It's almost as if time travels at a different speed for these elves, I mean honestly! We just need to jolt them into action, make them want to march out of their precious Halls, and tag along.”

 

Fili only realizes he's smiling when he speaks.

“And how do you propose we do that?” he inquires gently, “what could the Elvenking possibly want in Esgaroth?”

“No idea,” Kili all but throws up his arms, “dwarven gold? The gratitude of men? We must come up with something. _You_ must come up with something.”

“ _Me?_ ” Fili chuckles, “I thought you had a whole plan all laid out.”

“Yes, I do,” Kili is almost grinning now, and it takes all Fili has not to stand up, cross the span of the room, and clutch his face in his hands.

“I do, and it is to find the Elvenking's weakness, so to speak, and abuse it. But I'm not the one for grand speeches – you are.”

 

Fili feels it then, the warmth spreading from his chest all over his body, and even though there are still things left unsaid, all is forgotten for that one blissful moment, when his little brother shines like a beacon of hopeful light.

“Well then,” Fili supplies, “there's only one thing we need now.”

Kili raises an eyebrow, and Fili grants him the warmest of smiles.

“We need an audience with the King.”

-

 

“I'd like to leave soon,” Thorin announces one day, when it's no one but him and Bilbo in the kitchen yet again, so quietly that the hobbit isn't even sure he heard him right.

Or perhaps he simply doesn't want to hear him right.

He looks up from his reading, and the King eyes him calmly from his spot in the large chair by the kiln.

“...Understandable,” Bilbo supplies coolly, and Thorin's gaze darts away.

Silence follows, drawn and heavy, the soft song of the wind twisting in the rafters outside lending it an almost eerie undertone.

“...Will you-”

“I don't know.”

 

Bilbo surprises himself with the swiftness of his response, and with the response itself. But he does not, does not know. He wants to, that much is certain, but he's not longer sure he _should._ For his own good, perhaps – and when did he start thinking about that?

Thorin hangs his head, nodding curtly, and whatever guilt Bilbo feels, he quickly swallows. However, sensing that he should say some more at least, he adds: “Surely you understand I'd like some time to decide. ...If you're willing to give it.”

The dwarf frowns, simply _hmph'_ s, and gazes out of the window, only granting him a short, fleeting look, that tells Bilbo nothing of the effect his words had. Once or twice it seems like Thorin will have something more to say, but it's as if he always gives up halfway, and eventually, he stands up with a grunt and leaves Bilbo alone, the thoughts swirling around his head and darkening the corners of the otherwise cozy room making him cold, restless and altogether quite sad.

 

In the next days, he listens to Ludo helping Thorin plan his journey, with a hollow, dull ache that always forces him to leave the room in the end. He doesn't sleep well, despite his regular cup of warm milk with honey before bed. He burns a pie for the first time in, probably, decades, and then proceeds to burn himself as well while taking it out of the oven. It's the pain of the blisters quickly forming on his palm, along with the acrid smoke filling the kitchen, that brings tears to his eyes at first, but once they're there, he cannot quite stop them anymore, and he has a good old weep sitting on a small stool and wrapping his injured hand in a damp cloth, clutching it and curling up on himself like a little child. 

He feels weak, and small, and paper-thin afterward, but at the very least sleep takes him quick that night.

 

A date is set. It's in two weeks at first, then one in the blink of an eye, and then there's no more than two days left, and Bilbo still has not decided, still has not given Thorin an answer. He grows fidgety and inattentive, Matylda all but banning him from the kitchen. For all the good in her, she tries talking some sense into him, speaking of regret, and taking chances, and missed opportunities, but he pays little mind to it.

They return to their now-familiar grooves, each spending their time as far away from the other as possible – the cold is almost too much to handle, but Bilbo works outdoors nevertheless, in the mill down the road or in the orchards, and when he returns, he goes straight for his room and huddles there until he's sure it's safe to go downstairs.

When he finds the house deserted, save for the sounds of Thorin doing this or that on the back porch, he all but runs out, a sudden dread and desperation weighing on him. The sun has almost set and the cold is now close to unpleasant, but somehow, Bilbo cannot find it within him to go back inside. He wanders aimlessly until he stands on top of the hill overlooking Mirkwood, next to the large chestnut tree – but memories announce themselves soon enough, of hanging for dear life in the treetop, of sitting in the shade, a large fur with a distinctively familiar smell slung over his shoulders, and he doesn't linger long.

 

He knows not what possesses him, but he makes his way slowly downhill – Ludo's hut is still alight, a tiny firefly compared to the grim shadow of the forest looming over it, and Bilbo thinks he could really use the man's company, and the walk. 

The grass is damp, dew setting early, and everything is quiet – flocks upon flocks of birds were seen leaving the forest and its immediate vicinity after the fire, and even the insects are quieter, their buzzing sporadic, almost careful. Bilbo walks over large spots of bare, scorched ground, and the smell of wet ashes is faint, but ever-present. 

Ludo's small shack took the brunt of the catastrophe, nothing but charred logs remaining, but the lumberer set about repairing it quickly, basically forced to build it anew before the winter comes. The base of it is almost finished now, Bilbo sees, the new, clean planks of it crisp white against the pitch black background.

Ludo's mare is grazing on what little grass is left this close to Mirkwood, waiting for her master, raising her head with a soft snort when she hears the hobbit approaching. He almost calls out to announce himself, but hears the voices first. A tingle dances up his spine at the hushed tones, and he almost turns and leaves, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Quite mindlessly, he nears the hut, of course without a sound – he is a hobbit after all. He cannot quite make out the words, but Ludo seems irritated, or displeased, as he raises his voice every now and then. His companion on the other hand speaks quietly, almost menacingly.

Heedless and far too excited, Bilbo steps on a twig then, and it breaks with an almost deafening crack. He gasps and the voices stop, and before he can think properly, he's reaching for the ring in the front pocket of his overcoat. Ludo peeks out the next second, but Bilbo is already invisible and standing stock still.

 

His heart beating like a drum, he comes all the way to the hut – the roof is unfinished, half of it substituted by an oiled canvas, flapping about where one of the walls should be, and the hobbit sneaks around in a large enough circle to feel safe, and gets a perfect view.

Ludo is leaning on a pile of logs and wooden boxes, his ax slung over his shoulder, conversing with a man whose face is covered in a hood, and who's grasping an all-too familiar walking stick. It's Flint, Bilbo remembers in a flash, the man who came to Harrow Mill so unexpectedly some time back... And didn't Ludo swear revenge on him the next time he'd meet him?

More than a little confused, Bilbo listens, almost forgetting to breathe.

“I told you no guarantees,” Flint supplies, and Ludo scowls.

“Ya couldn't 'ave _possibly_ anticipated the fire,” he retorts.

“No, that I did not. But-” a smile glints from under the dark hood, “at least it gave you time, didn't it?”

“Oh, aye,” Ludo scoffs, “and it gave _him_ the time to recover.”

Flint shrugs.

“So? They will intercept him on the road. Hardly a challenge. Just say the word.”

Ludo frowns and sighs, then shakes his head.

“No.”

Flint chuckles incredulously and takes a step closer so that his features are finally revealed in the faint light of a lantern swaying above their heads. His face is like a pallid orb, the dark circles under his eyes considerably more pronounced than the last time Bilbo saw him, and he looks tormented, cheeks gaunt, as those of a famished man. Still his look is steady, and very obviously threatening.

 

“What?” he demands sweetly, as if he can't quite believe his ears.

“I said no,” Ludo utters, “this is goin' too far. There is somethin' so much bigger than us at stake. ...Have you heard the news from Esgaroth?”

“Have I – _yes,_ I've heard the news from Esgaroth! What does that have to do with anything?” Flint exclaims, “and since when do you care about the _greater good?!_ Don't you dare turn your back on me now!”

He is much smaller than Ludo in both height and posture, and when the lumberjack takes a step closer to him, he towers over him sinisterly, and Flint all but recoils.

“Don't _you_ dare speak to me about backstabbin',” Ludo growls, “and I care about the greater good since I found out ye don't. Keep yer money.”

“What would you have me do?” Flint cries, “go back and tell them their prized King has gone? They will kill me!”

“Oh, just be glad I don't kill ye meself,” Ludo groans, “off with ye now. Go! If I ever see ye around the Mill again, gods know I _will_ get yer head!”

Flint wraps his shabby travel cloak tighter around his shoulders, and stands taller.

“What's to stop me from sending them after you?” he speaks, suddenly quietly, threateningly, “ _all_ of you? As far as I know, orcs don't concern themselves with collateral damage.”

 

_Orcs!_ Bilbo yelps as he tumbles a few inadvertent steps back, but fortunately, he manages to keep his balance and remain relatively quiet. Well that took him long enough to figure out! His mind is racing now – what should he do?!

“What's to stop me from killin' ye right now?” Ludo drawls, and Bilbo almost winces, his image of the man being destroyed steadily.

A sudden panic seizes him, and he begins shaking in the night's cold – because night it is now, and he didn't even notice it falling. His hands fly to his mouth when Flint draws a dagger out of nowhere.

“You always were the _noble_ one,” the short man states bitterly, and Ludo takes a couple of careful steps away from him, and a quite pathetic mewling sound escapes Bilbo's lips as he slowly drags his ax off his shoulder.

“Y'know I don't wanna hurt ya,” he states clearly, but it only earns him a bark of laughter.

“I promise I won't let you,” Flint retorts, and lunges forward.

 

Ludo dodges the first strike quite easily, countering with a blow of his elbow to Flint's back, that sends the man staggering, gasping for breath. He recovers quickly though, pivoting to face him. Ludo hits the lantern by accident when he parries his next attack, and it bobs and sways dangerously, almost violent gashes of golden light dancing and jumping over the two adversaries.

Bilbo backs up a little, then returns, quite incapable of deciding what to do. All his instincts are telling him to run as fast as he can, but what then? What will he tell Thorin, and, oh, more importantly, Matylda? Does she know? Would they even believe him?

Ludo roars then – it seems Flint has managed to strike him, even though he has the man under him, overpowered, shoved against the pile of logs. He grabs Flint's shoulders and pushes him away, harshly enough so that the man trips and falls, but when Ludo attempts to attack him, he cries out and almost ends up on the ground himself. With one hand, he supports himself on the wood, the other clutches his stomach where the dagger had hit, his ax on the ground. 

Flint scrambles to his feet, an evil grin spreading over his face, Ludo's weapon closer to him than the original owner by a long shot. He bends to pick it up, but that's when a piece of wood hits him straight between the eyes. He blinks and straightens up, trying to determine where it came from, and Bilbo curses at himself mentally, for his recklessness. He doesn't even have Sting with him, for crying out loud!

Nevertheless, he picks another piece up, weighing it, then flinging it so that it hits Flint's arm. Even Ludo's brows furrow in confusion, and the hobbit, entirely terrified of his own decisions at that point, nears the two, entering the hut, his hands full of possibly the silliest ideas at weapons anyone has ever devised.

 

Flint shakes off the initial confusion and gets a hold of the ax. Ludo begins backing up, and Bilbo quickly realizes he has yet again plunged into action without any plan whatsoever.

“You know I've always thought of you as a brother,” Flint states somewhat theatrically, nearing Ludo slowly, and the lumberjack half laughs, half groans in pain.

“Didn't you kill your brother?” he points out.

“Oh,” Flint says cheerfully, “oh, that's right. Yes, I did.”

He swings the ax with a might quite unexpected for such a small frame, and Ludo is forced to jump back – he exclaims in pain and almost topples to the ground, and very barely dodges the next strike, his only luck remaining in managing to hide behind the pile of logs. But there's nowhere to move anymore, and Bilbo realizes with a dreadful certainty that he's about to do something incredibly reckless, and dangerous – yet again.

Flint heaves the ax high, but before he can swing it, something akin to a battle cry is heard, and Bilbo jumps and manages to grasp onto the man's neck, his legs around his waist, and he kicks and pulls and isn't even very far from biting, actually.

Flint exclaims, and the utter shock of it makes him drop the ax, the blade just so missing his face, and the heavy carven handle hitting his foot.

“Ouch! What the everliving... _Ahh!_ ”

He falls on his back, Bilbo with him – he manages to wriggle free, though, and jump to his feet, getting his hands on the ax (and being barely able to lift it).

“What is going _on?!_ ” Flint cries from the ground, and Bilbo decides that now would be a good time to lose his ring.

 

“ _Bilbo?!_ ” Ludo gasps when the hobbit appears out of nowhere, between him and Flint, the ax probably, definitely taller than he is.

“What _is this?!_ ” Flint demands, almost panicked, scrambling to his feet.

“Oh, oh no, I wouldn't if I were you,” Bilbo stutters, taking a valiant step forward, “you see, I, I, I have this ring! See? It has great magical powers!”

He pops it back on, and the dull clang of the ax hitting the ground echoes along with the men's astonished gasps.

“Wh-where did he go?!” Flint wants to know, his voice almost frantically high-pitched.

“I'm right here,” Bilbo announces himself from behind Flint's back, and when the man swivels around, he kicks him very precisely in the shin.

In the meantime, Ludo manages to regain his ax and stand somewhat straight, though the front of his shirt is stained with blood. When Flint's cries of pain have subsided, he almost collides with him, and turns to run the other way, but Bilbo slips the ring off again, blocking it.

“What are you _playing at?!_ ” Flint exclaims ferociously.

“Get lost,” Ludo growls simply, then, exchanging a split-second glance with Bilbo, who nods almost imperceptibly, “I told ya there's more to this. Don't make me show ya. Or worse, don't make _him_ show ya.”

Flint turns to look at Bilbo, who raises an eyebrow and beckons him with a childish shooing motion. The man makes a move for his dagger, now lying forgotten in the dust, but immediately, the very tip of Ludo's ax is an inch away from his face.

“I'm warnin' ye.”

 

Flint straightens up, and for a few seconds, a silence almost buzzing with anticipation seizes the three.

“...We're not done,” he announces somewhat breathlessly then.

“Ye don't say,” Ludo sighs.

...Flint dashes past them, and disappears into the night, and they let him, because at that point, Bilbo is very definitively betrayed by his bravado, and Ludo by his health.

“Oh, dear me,” the hobbit breathes out, his legs barely carrying him.

“...You saved me life,” Ludo speaks quietly, in his voice and eyes a mixture of gratitude and disbelief.

“Yes, yes I did,” Bilbo affirms, short of breath, and very definitely shivering, “ _after,_ may I point out, I'd learned that you were planning to do... what exactly? And with _the orcs?_ Oh my, should we have let him go? Are we safe?!”

“...We are,” Ludo grunts, “for now. I'm sorry, Bilbo, I promise I'll explain everything. But after we've managed to get home, agreed?”

His wound seems to be more extensive than Bilbo had thought, as his cheeks are ashen, glinting with sweat, and his step unsure.

“Y-yes,” he nods, suddenly very, very cold, his fright finally catching up with him in full, “let's go home.”

 

The journey there is tedious, as Ludo is hurting even though he doesn't show it, leaning on the horse for support, and Bilbo can't offer much in the way of help, because the adrenaline coursing through his veins subsides and transforms into an unpleasant anxiety that makes him want to be as far from the man as possible, take Thorin and make their way for Esgaroth, or anywhere really, right now, in the middle of the night...

He still understands very little of what he heard in the hut, and it occurs to him truly then, perhaps for the first time, that he knows next to nothing about either of their hosts. The lights of Harrow Mill up on the hill offering very little comfort at all, Bilbo begins to feel an anger suppressed for so long that it now threatens to scorch the ground he treads on. He's angry with Ludo, for very probably not being the man he thought he were, and for being so kind to him; he's angry with Thorin for a plethora of reasons, all of which make him want to kick and scream, and curl up and weep, all at the same time; and he's angry with his own foolish, trusting, _ridiculous_ self, for his largely inconvenient feelings, and his lack of knowledge of the world, and his infuriating urge to see the best in people.

“Bilbo,” Ludo mumbles, as if he's sensed his train of thought, “I know this is askin' a lot, but please... let me tell Matylda my version of the events. The truth is, she knows... very little of my dealings with Flint, and I...-”

“I don't care,” Bilbo sighs heavily, his voice dulled by sadness, the man before his eyes reduced to a shadow of what he considered him not an hour ago, “I really... really don't. As long as you _promise me_ no harm will come to Thorin, I will... I'll keep your secret.”

“...I promise,” Ludo utters, and Bilbo knows they're empty words, but he simply cannot bring himself to worry.

 

Both Matylda and Thorin hurry out to greet them as they make their way slowly through the gate, and Bilbo grits his teeth, ignoring the questions, ignoring the urgency rising up in the King's eyes and voice, and, with a stern 'I'm fine, really, please.', he makes his way into the house, sitting down near the fireplace, rubbing his hands together to warm up, and wishing with all his might for a cup of tea, or perhaps even something stronger.

He even considers popping the ring back on to avoid having to talk to anyone, but they enter the room all at once, and he simply remains quiet amidst the ruckus of Ludo stripping his shirt, Tylda boiling water and gathering bandages to treat the wound, and Thorin demanding answers.

..The story Ludo presents them with does feature Flint – as the main culprit. According to the lumberjack, he was confronted by him to disclose the identity of Harrow Mill's guests, and when Ludo learned of his affiliation with the orcs, he refused to cooperate, and the fight in which Bilbo interfered, ensued.

“We must go,” Thorin states quietly, sharply, and the hobbit doesn't even notice he's looking at him, much less his inclusion in the sentence; that's how miserably helpless and bitter, and _tired,_ he's feeling.

“No,” Ludo counters, “the orcs are all over the Great Eastern Road now. You wouldn't get far – they're expectin' ya. Stay here where it's safest until they've stopped searchin'.”

“What's to stop them from coming here again?” Thorin points out, and an exasperated groan escapes Bilbo's lips.

Matylda, who has just finished heating up a late-night portion of broth for everyone, sits down next to him and pushes a bowl into his hands, which he accepts with almost childlike gratitude. They listen to the dwarf and the man discussing their plans seemingly endlessly, and Bilbo barely resists the urge to drag his fellow hobbit away and tell her everything, about his fear, and his doubt, and, yes, his fury, but ultimately, if at least one of them can be spared the suffering, it should be her, he figures.

 

They seem to have reached an agreement Bilbo didn't catch the details of, maybe they're staying, or maybe Thorin will be gone with first light tomorrow, but his head simply refuses to register any of it, and the only thing he needs right now is the warmth of his blanket and pillow. Him and the King walk up the stairs slowly, side by side, and when Thorin stops at the top, before the door to his bedroom, and says quietly, almost gently: “Can we speak?”, Bilbo merely sighs, looking him in the eye fleetingly.

“Not now, I beg of you,” he states earnestly, and he feels nothing but an incredible weariness as he walks past the dwarf (who might look slightly nonplussed, or outright disappointed, but he can't even see properly anymore) and delves into his room, slumber claiming him the second his head rests on his pillow.

-

 

It soon becomes obvious that simply requesting to talk with Thranduil will not do the trick. They approach Tauriel and Legolas with the problem, and are offered sympathy, but not much else. The rest of the company are largely clueless as well, their ideas ranging from silly to outright dangerous.

But at least they're thinking, and planning, and the mood rises, almost imperceptibly, but it's there.

“You know, Eurinel the librarian lent me a book on the history of the wood elves,” Ori points out, all the dwarves huddled and lounging around the fireplace in their barracks, “it was... well, it was incredibly dull, to be honest. B-but I did learn that apparently the Elvenking, uh, fought in the War of the Last Alliance, by the side of his father, who perished in the battle of Dagorlad. He returned to Mirkwood – Greenwood, and became King, but, well, essentially, the forest became... well, what it is now, and the elves were outnumbered, and couldn't stop any of it. At least that's what the book says.”

“Touching,” Bofur utters, “who knew it would take a dozen dwarves to change the course of tragic destiny.”

“No, I, no, I meant that...” Ori stutters, but the others are already cheerfully mocking the elves' inability to fight properly, laughing and altogether teeming with jovial indifference.

 

Fili goes to sit with the youngest of the company.

“...What were you trying to say, then?” he inquires gently.

“Oh, no, well, it was nothing, really,” Ori mumbles.

“I want to know,” Fili says stoutly, and Ori blinks at him.

“...Well...,” he starts carefully, “I was just thinking... I know that, uh, Thorin wasn't – i-isn't on excellent terms with the Elvenking, but maybe we could... I mean, in the spirit of, of starting anew, so to speak...”

“...Yes?” Fili beckons him with a smile.

“I just... I'm saying I understand why Thranduil doesn't want to leave the forest,” Ori blubbers, flushing, and he seems all but mortified at the audacity of his own words, “he didn't offer help when Smaug first attacked Erebor, because he had seen a dragon before, and wouldn't risk the lives of his kin, and I'm, I'm seeing how that hasn't changed since. I-if we want him to set out, and actually take part in... whatever is brewing out there, we'll have to... motivate him.”

“Yes, I know,” Fili nods, “but _how?_ ”

He catches Kili's gaze over the span of the room then, and nods at him slightly, and he joins them in a matter of seconds.

“W-well, I was thinking...” Ori stutters, somewhat bewildered by both Fili and Kili paying attention so closely, “I'm not... I don't want to assume that Thorin is lost to us... but, well...”

“...But let's work with that idea for now,” Fili says softly, and a look of horror flashes over Ori's features, but then he nods.

Kili's eyes are much less readable, but at least he's there, and Fili feels calmer, for all that it's worth.

 

“Well... alright,” the youngest dwarf speaks, and the others begin to register the importance behind his words as well, and turn their attention to him, “let's assume we get to Erebor, and s-somehow manage to reclaim it.”

“Aye, I could get behind that,” Dwalin mutters, and few others laugh.

“...And if everything goes well, Fili becomes King.”

The silence is short-lived, and the falter in Fili's voice almost imperceptible, when he says: “Carry on.”

“I'm afraid some might have a word or two to say about that,” Gloin reminds them, “I can't imagine, say, Dain Ironfoot sitting idly by.”

“Yes,” Ori blurts out almost eagerly, “yes, that is what I'm counting on.”

 

...They don't even have to make any more attempts at getting Thranduil's attention in the end – the Elvenking sends for them himself later that night. Or, rather, for Fili. His head still buzzing with ideas, fed by the very nearly shouted discussion their earlier talk had evolved into, and feeling an immensely comfortable, calm sort of capability, he hurries behind Tauriel, and, because he simply didn't let anyone stop him, Kili by her side.

“You're lucky, more than anything else,” the elf informs them, “and you should thank Legolas for this until the end of days.”

“How did he beat the King into compliance?” Kili wonders cheerfully, and Tauriel's look is piercing and scolding, but then she sighs: “You'll see.”

To their surprise, they soon realize they're not being led in the direction of the throne chamber, but rather deeper down into the maze of the palace, through corridors they do not recognize in the slightest. Everything is strangely quiet save for the distant hum of water, and the smell of earth is stronger, the air more humid. The walls around them are teeming with life, much less polished and defined than what they've seen so far, strange plants with oddly shaped leaves crawling their way down from the ceilings.

They come to a halt before a carven gate ajar, tall even for elvish standards, and beyond it, they see treetops, of all things, short, but bushy, and altogether surprisingly healthy, considering the environment. 

“The orchards,” Tauriel announces, her voice almost reverently quiet, and leads them inside.

Natural light bathes what is in fact the mouth of a large cave leading into the forest itself in a dim haze, and they can hear the soft murmur of leaves and insects, and the grass below their feet is short, but almost ethereally green.

 

They see the Elvenking then, sitting on a simple bench by a cluster of small, opalescent ponds, his back turned to them, and his son standing tall next to him, hands folded behind his back.

“I've brought them,” Tauriel speaks softly.

“Them?” Thranduil tilts his head while Legolas greets them with a nod, “I don't remember asking for anyone else but the heir.”

“...They didn't give me much choice,” the Captain supplies, and Thranduil turns to them at last.

He isn't even wearing a crown, his long hair framing his sharp features loosely, and that and his silvery coat lends him a very regal glow. He raises his eyebrow at the sight of Kili, who simply glares back defiantly.

“...Leave us,” the Elvenking orders, and Tauriel turns on her heel immediately, and marches away, not sparing the dwarves a single look.

 

“...What are you, then?” Thranduil makes a fleeting gesture towards Kili, “the future King's Consort?”

“His brother,” Kili retorts dryly, and a small, incomprehensible smirk dances of the Elvenking's lips.

“...What do you want from us?” Fili steers the conversation in the desired direction, trying to decipher the strange, somewhat stiff look Legolas' features are frozen in.

“ _Me_ from _you?_ ” the Elvenking opts for a tone of mock-surprise, “no, I think you'll find it's the other way around.”

“Why did you summon me, then?” Fili demands further, noticing Legolas' forehead rippling in a short, displeased frown.

Thranduil's eyes narrow, and silence follows. When it becomes almost unbearable, Legolas steps forward, and the look in his eyes gives Fili hope.

“I told my Father I want to travel to Esgaroth,” the elven prince says simply, and is about to add some more, but Thranduil stops him, a stern gesture of his hand, and then he's all but looming over the dwarves.

“Apparently, my son has discovered within himself an urge to _travel,_ and _explore._ I am given to understand that the situation in Esgaroth is one that _demands our attention._ ”

Fili simply gapes at him, and Legolas crosses his arms over his chest, scowling.

“Imagine my surprise,” the Elvenking continues with an all-too familiar drawled sweetness, “when he presented me with the outstanding idea to bring _you_ along.”

“I... well, we would certainly be very grateful, if...” Fili tries, but is interrupted by a short bark of dry laughter.

“Yes, I imagine you would be _grateful,_ ” Thranduil all but hisses, “but I would be _more_ grateful if you ceased to plant ideas in my son's head.”

“Father...” Legolas moans.

 

“We're not _planting ideas_ in his head!” Kili exclaims, offended, and Fili raises his hand lightly to calm him down.

“It did not occur to us _once_ to... to _use_ Legolas' influence with you for our benefit,” he says, and even though it's a rather blatant lie, a short knowing, grateful glance is exchanged between the two princes.

“Oh, indeed?” Thranduil counters, “then you are not attempting to come up with ways for me to let you leave my Halls?”

“...We are,” Fili replies simply, ignoring his brother's feeble protests, “of course. In fact, we have come to present you with one.”

Thranduil raises his eyebrow in a display of severe disbelief.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Fili retorts, then, infinitely more seriously, “if you will hear it.”

 

The Elvenking scrutinizes him then for a long time, and Fili merely bears it, praying for Kili's patience to hold. He knows not how he finds it within himself to withstand this conversation at all in the first place, every part of him burning with a desire he hasn't felt in quite some time, the burning need to _accomplish_ things, and not waste a second more in this wretched, damp, worm-infested (all Bofur's words, but he finds them fairly fitting) place.

Then Thranduil straightens up with a snap, and sits down on his bench again.

“Speak,” he utters, and it's as if the breath Fili takes then is his very last one, before words come pouring out of him.

 

“When we reclaim Erebor, I'm next in line of succession after my Uncle, Thorin Oakenshield, as I'm sure you know,” he prefaces, “but when the Mountain rests in the hands of dwarves again, I can assure you, its fate will be all but certain. There are others with claims to the throne, in Ered Luin and the Iron Hills, and while they are not the rightful heirs, they are being summoned, all of them, receiving missives not unlike the one that's come to you, asking them for help. As far as they're concerned, the Line of Durin is gone, and the spoils of the kingdom are theirs for the taking.

Now, if I can't get to Erebor in time to resolve this, and either of them becomes King under the Mountain, I'm positive you will find yourself in a rather... unpleasant position, because unlike me, Dain Ironfoot and the others are _traditionalists,_ and old ones at that. All attempts at making peace with what will once again begin rising as the greatest dwarven kingdom, will be met with... shall we say, dismay.

_But,_ if I become King, your... hospitality will not be forgotten, but rewarded. I know that you find it safest not to concern yourself with the matters beyond the border of your forest, but this is _the future_ we are discussing. You can either be seen as the one who assisted the King under the Mountain come into his own, and have his long-standing gratitude, or remain here. It's entirely your decision.”

 

The silence after that is deafening, and Fili thinks it's the most tranquil he's felt in ages. Each word was chiseled into perfection and chosen deliberately, and he sees the effect they had and knows, _knows_ he will succeed, and the feeling is _exquisite._ He cannot look at Kili now, but his brother's calm breathing and the warmth of his presence, though they're not touching, are enough to ground him.

“...May I remind you there is still a dragon in your way,” Thranduil supplies, his voice perfectly leveled, “and if I'm not mistaken, you have no means of entering the Mountain?”

Fili almost says 'We'll cross that bridge when we get to it', but then he smiles, and shrugs, and all but blinks cheerfully at Legolas, who gapes at him, his face a mixture of bafflement and well-concealed wonder.

“Take that as an incentive if you want,” he says, and in that moment at least, really believes his next words, thinking he could probably wrestle Smaug singlehandedly in his current state, “but Erebor is more than worth fighting a dragon for.”

-

 

Misery has its way of worming into a heart like nobody's business, Bilbo learns. They are staying at the Mill for the time being, Ludo and Thorin disappearing for hours on end to scout out ahead on the Great Eastern Road, to find out more about the situation, and Bilbo and Matylda are left with worry and fear gnawing insistently at their nerves. Bilbo strains himself then not to tell Tylda everything he heard that night, but she has a lot on her plate either way, and so he simply assures her over and over again that her husband will return home alright, and makes it his mission to distract her until he does.

As his personal feelings go, he's usually just immensely relieved when he hears the front door creak and open, and he leaves it at that.

 

Then one rather pleasant afternoon by the crackling fire becomes a pleasant evening, Bilbo reading (he took up Fillibald Took's _Life With the Dwarves_ again and is currently very pointedly _not_ feeling nostalgic) and Matylda embroidering a tablecloth, and before long, snow starts falling, and the soft murmur of it finally makes them realize it's pitch black outside, and no sight of Ludo and Thorin.

“They're alright,” Bilbo mutters, taking notice of Matylda's gaze darting out of the window increasingly more often, “they'll be back any minute.”

Just then, the doorbell tinkles, and they smile at each other, Matylda setting her work aside.

Ludo enters the room, brushing his long fur lined coat off his shoulders along with the snow, and sinks into a chair close to the fire.

“What a weather. Looks like there's a blizzard comin',” he groans, and then, looking around as Tylda hurries to the kitchen to bring him something warm to drink, “where's Thorin, then?”

Both hobbits freeze, Bilbo sitting up.

“He... didn't come with you?” he all but whines.

“Oh, blast it,” Ludo moans, “we almost ran into a coupla scouts, had to split up to lead 'em away... We did agree to come back in large circles, y'know, just to be safe, so maybe he's just takin' his time...”

“...Yes,” Bilbo breathes out, suddenly in need of the warmth of grog down his throat to dissipate the tightness in his chest, “maybe.”

 

The wait is excruciating and tedious, and at last, Bilbo can't bear it anymore, making his way into the kitchen for more drink, and that's when he sees Thorin through the window.

“He's here!” he calls, his voice almost failing him, and hurries out into the cold without a second thought, not even bothering to put a coat on.

It stings and bites at his bare forearms and feet – the wind has grown stronger, chasing the snowflakes in circles over the backyard, but all he cares about is the small figure, slowly approaching from the gate.

“Are you alright?” he demands, anger mixed with relief, and quite a bit of frailty.

“I am,” Thorin responds gruffly, “is Ludo back yet?”

“...He is, yes, but you are _not_ alright...- give me that!”

Bilbo sees the King is clutching his hip, and makes him hand over Orcrist and slowly, they make their way to the house.

“What happened?” Ludo demands as Thorin loses his coat.

“One of them spotted me,” the King explains, “and was very persistent.”

Bilbo notices then that Orcrist's blade is covered in fresh blood and grime, and sets it aside swiftly, his stomach twisting. Thorin makes his way into the kitchen, where he receives a cup of grog, but then he cannot hide his condition anymore, and leans heavily on the table.

“Are you injured?” Ludo wants to know, “I'll take a look.”

 

And maybe it's the look in Matylda eyes, that Bilbo recognizes far too well, or perhaps something else, he may never know, but he says softly: “No, let me. You rest.”

Ludo nods shortly, and goes to bolt the door, and if Thorin has any feelings about the matter whatsoever, his eyes don't show it.

“I'll be in my room,” he states in the hobbit's general direction, and makes his way up the stairs, not without hardship.

Tylda boils water for him, and he gathers fresh bandages, because he suspects he will need them, and follows shortly after. He finds the dwarf undressing stiffly, struggling with his boots, and he has the courtesy to be quiet and not offer his help.

“What happened, then?” he inquires as Thorin shrugs off his armored tunic, and sits on the bed, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up.

“Nothing,” the King mutters, washing his face, “I was too slow for one second. It's just a scratch.”

“Oh, really,” Bilbo retorts, unimpressed, “let me be the judge of that.”

Thorin glares at him for a moment – it has after all been quite some time since they let each other this close – but then he sighs, and rolls up his shirt. The gash runs long across the now-healed scar, but it's barely more than skin-deep. Bilbo cleans it gently, and a wave of such bittersweet melancholy washes over him, that he can barely look the King in the eye as he bandages his torso. The dwarf's chest radiates a steady warmth, and even though he tries his damnedest to avoid touching it overmuch, his skin is soft under his fingers.

“There,” he mumbles when the job is done, his head still hung low, “but I swear, if I ever have to do this again, I _will_ let you bleed out.”

Thorin chuckles softly, and an inconvenient shiver runs up Bilbo's spine.

“You could've done that long ago.”

“Yes, well, maybe I should have,” he all but pouts, “for all my trouble.”

“...I am sorry,” the King mutters, and when Bilbo looks up at him, more than a little surprised, the smallest smile lights up his features, “for all your trouble.”

 

The hobbit doesn't quite know what to do with his hands then, folded in his lap uselessly, and he feels his cheeks flushing fervently, and Thorin's gaze simply won't let him go.

“Oh, well, erm,” he utters feebly, perfectly aware that they are sitting but inches apart, “you know. I would ask you to make sure it'll be worth my time, but... you don't seem to particularly care about that, so...”

“...What?” Thorin sighs, and when Bilbo risks glancing up at him, he seems genuinely lost for just that one fleeting moment.

“Oh, nothing,” the hobbit blurts out, suddenly irritated, “it's nothing.”

And with that, he stands up abruptly, quite certain he can bear the close proximity no more.

“Bilbo,” Thorin all but demands from behind him.

“Mhm?”

“...Could we please agree that we have been unclear with each other long enough, and... speak freely?”

“Oh?” Bilbo scoffs, and the dull anger snaps back into place out of nowhere, “a lovely idea. Write _that_ into your contract.”

“Is that what you want to talk about, then?” the King counters bitterly, “contracts?”

“Oh, dear me, I _don't know,_ ” Bilbo moans theatrically, his gaze piercing Thorin now, who sits slumped in his bed, “what would _you_ like to talk about? Oh, here's a topic for your consideration – apologizing! Lovely concept, if, of course, one manages to get the hang of it!”

The King blinks at him a couple of times, looking genuinely bewildered. 

“I am... I'm sorry,” he supplies at last, unsure, “for... whatever I did, I...-”

“ _Whatever_ you did?” Bilbo cries, “really? Do you want me to write you a list? How about you running off into the wild, leaving me behind?! Just off the top of my head, you know!”

“Is that... _Really?_ ” Thorin exclaims, “it did say very clearly in the letter that I would guarantee the terms of our contract would be met, and your safety...-”

 

“My _safety?!_ ” Bilbo all but shouts then, and he's had it, and he knows nothing will stop him now, “now you listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield – I don't care about your blasted contracts, or _conditions,_ or _money!_ And I certainly have no patience for your constant need to keep me _safe!_ I can do that very well on my own, thank you very much, and if you think you can tell me what to do, you are _sorely_ mistaken! Besides, I made you a promise! Yes! Remember? I promised to accompany you, and you should know that when hobbits make a promise, we _keep_ that promise, and choosing to ignore that is considered very rude indeed! How _dare you?_ ”

He is positively livid now, but the King merely gapes at him – hopefully at least a little speechless.

“...I see,” he says quietly, “what _do_ you care about, if I may ask?”

“What?!” Bilbo spits, slightly thrown off balance by that.

“Well, if you don't care about the contract, or the money, why are you still here?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, you bloody... what do _you_ want?” Bilbo's tone goes from furious to coldly mocking, “huh? You asked me to accompany you, and you led me to believe... You made me think that...”

But he cannot find it within himself to use the right words, though he knows them, and his temples are throbbing, his heart racing. His mouth is dry, and he realizes he's not far from tears when he gulps heavily.

“I'm sorry,” Thorin supplies softly, and he's smiling somberly, which is entirely unfair, “really. I never wanted you to... suffer for learning about my feelings. Regardless...-”

“Wait, what... _what?_ I never said... your _feelings?_ I know next to nothing about your... what?” Bilbo stutters, now thoroughly confused.

“Well, I just assumed...” the dwarf says gruffly, looking away almost bashfully, “I mean to say... that is why I left, I wasn't...”

“ _Thorin,_ ” Bilbo cuts him off resolutely, his voice wavering only marginally, “you _just_ said to be clear with each other, _please, speak clearly._ I have no idea what you're trying to say to me.”

“Forgive me,” the King almost smiles, and Bilbo _hmph_ 's.

 

“...You once said to me you wanted peace,” the dwarf says then, and Bilbo often thinks later on that he should've recognized it in his voice, the... the uncertainty, mixed with quite the undercurrent of nearly-frightening honesty, “and, well, that's all I've ever striven for, as well. I once thought it would be achieved by, by finishing this quest, and doing good by my Father and his Father before him. I had all these visions, of reclaiming kingdoms, and regaining the glory of the old, and the peace that all of that would surely bring along. I thought it was something in my _blood._

...And then I found you.”

It takes a while for the words to hit home, and a disbelieving chuckle escapes Bilbo's lips when they do, but Thorin's gaze flickers from him to his own hands folded in his lap, and the hobbit's heart is suddenly hammering against his ribcage.

“I found what I wanted in the most unexpected of places,” the King continues before he can bring himself to respond, “and I could only wish you... you felt the same. But ultimately, I left you, because... I was afraid of my own thinking – of finding within me the desire to forsake this damn quest altogether, and admit that... you were what I'd been looking for.”

And Bilbo stands there, suddenly feeling very small in the span of the room, and he realizes he's shivering, his eyes welling with tears, a sharp ache rising in his throat, lodged there along with all the words he'd like to say.

“I am no wordsmith,” Thorin adds quietly, “but surely you understand why I couldn't tell you. I'm certain being an old dwarf's vision of peace wasn't a part of the contract you signed.”

At that, Bilbo half laughs, half sobs, and his head feels the clearest it's been in _ages._

“I told you already,” he sniffs, and his feet carry him back to Thorin's bed quite on their own accord, “I don't care about contracts.”

 

He almost trips and suffers quite an undignified fall, but Thorin's arms meet him halfway, and he finds himself seated on his legs astride, just like when he used to tend to his wounds, only this time, his hands are resting against the King's chest, and the warmth is almost unbearable. He reaches for Thorin's hand, envelops it with both of his, and kisses it gently, sheepishly, then presses it to his own clavicle.

“You blasted idiot,” he blubbers, and Thorin laughs, bringing his other hand up to try and wipe away the tears that just keep trickling down Bilbo's cheeks.

“...May I?” the dwarf asks then, and it's Bilbo's turn to laugh.

“Well, if you still need to ask, I don't think I should let you!”

Thorin chuckles, and at long last, brings him close.

 

Bilbo thinks he will remember it forever – the way the mattress creaks under their shifting weight, and the tingle Thorin's fingers snaking out of his grasp and up to his neck leave in their wake, and the soft gasp that escapes him when their lips first meet. He cups the King's cheeks, fingers fanning out in the beard and crawling cautiously into the locks behind his ears and up, and what started out as soft, turns considerably deeper and more demanding.

They look on each other with new-found wonder when they part, but that doesn't last long. The next kiss grows infinitely more urgent, the hobbit's arms on Thorin's broad shoulders, and the King's hands on the small of his back. Bilbo yelps when Thorin finds his way under his shirt, his loins tingling as the fabric is brushed up and off them gently. He sits back a little, needing to see the King's face, and back gazes nothing but calm tenderness.

He goes about soothing Thorin's temples, and, unashamed now, taking initiative and kissing him gently, which is rewarded with a low hum, and the dwarf's hands resume their movement, long, slow strokes on the length of Bilbo's spine, that send pleasant shudders rippling throughout the hobbit's body. 

Outside the window, the blizzard comes, thousands of snowflakes like icy darts whipping Harrow Mill with unceasing strength, but the warmth inside the small bedroom, now illuminated by nothing more than one brass lantern on the end table, will not be stolen away by that. Bilbo gains courage, his hands running lower and finding the softness of Thorin's hips where the bandage doesn't reach anymore, and he's pleased to feel the stomach muscles there clenching under his fleeting touches. The dwarf responds in kind, his hands traveling ever so gently below the hem of Bilbo's breeches, and the hobbit yelps, enticing what couldn't in the right mind ever be mistaken for anything else than a mischievous spark in Thorin's eyes. He brings Bilbo in for another kiss, and at the same time, his warm palms travel in one sweeping, almost languid motion all the way from his back to his loins and lower, dangerously lower, drawing a muffled whimper out of the hobbit.

“Easy to please, I see,” Thorin all but chuckles.

Bilbo blushes and grins, and decides to press small kisses along the King's collarbone, which proves to be an excellent idea, as a rather... boundless gasp escapes Thorin's lips.

“Obviously it works both ways,” Bilbo mumbles, one of his hands moving to scrape at the dwarf's temple gently (there is something about the amount and softness of Thorin's silver-streaked mane that he thinks he will never get enough of), the other remaining somewhere right below his ribs.

“You do have some... unforeseen expertise,” Thorin admits rather breathlessly, and the span of his chest below Bilbo heaves up as the hobbit's fingers find a soft spot close to his hipbone and draw circles there.

“Oh, hardly any,” Bilbo counters, then, at Thorin's raised eyebrow, with a smile, “but I didn't need to tell you that.”

 

Hobbits aren't of course at all ignorant to this area of... procreating, but Bilbo hasn't shared his experiences with anyone since his early adult years. He remembers somewhat vaguely that his partners' responses weren't by any means unenthusiastic, and it seems he hasn't forgotten his ways completely – and anyway, it all boils down to the warm sort of... familiarity that he feels when he touches Thorin, as if he's been doing it for years, as if it's the one and only way to go. He's not afraid of failing here, and that's a novel and very welcome feeling.

He tugs at the string of Thorin's shirt, untangling and loosening it slowly, and a warm smile spreads over the King's features – he lets Bilbo pull the garment over his head carefully, in his eyes a tenderness so infinite and unlike him that the hobbit's heart skips a beat. He's seen his bare chest many times, of course, but this is the first occasion on which he can admire it unabashedly. He runs his fingers through the curls, softer than he'd expected, and even discovers a freckle or two that he falls in love with immediately.

Thorin's hands now rest lightly on his thighs, and squeeze inadvertently when the hobbit lowers his head and presses kisses over the span of the dwarf's chest from his clavicle lower, without shame, until he reaches a nipple. When he closes his mouth around it, almost carefully at first, Thorin inhales sharply through his nose, which is a very good incentive indeed. When he adds his tongue, Thorin groans, a low rumble that reverberates in his chest, and his grip on Bilbo's legs tightens. Bilbo sucks and laps, and even bares his teeth every now and then, and revels in the half-choked gasps Thorin rewards all that with. He pays attention to the other nipple as well, and the King's hand tangles in the curls on the nape of his neck, scraping gently, and a pleasant weight sets in the hobbit's gut.

“Come here,” Thorin sighs, and Bilbo obliges, and has but a second to admire the dwarf's rather disheveled appearance before he is pulled in for a kiss.

The earnest depth of it almost knocks the air out of his lungs, and he heaves himself up so that his head is momentarily higher than Thorin's, his thighs straddling the King's sides, his hands getting a firm grip in the long locks, which is met with nothing but approval. Thorin makes to dispose of Bilbo's shirt, with which the hobbit gladly assists, though he curls up on himself a tad sheepishly afterward, his chest shamefully bare and undefined compared to the King's.

“...I'm afraid I'm no dwarf,” he mutters.

“I know, I never expected you to be,” Thorin replies simply, with a smile, and then proceeds to give as good as he's been getting, his lips searing hot on Bilbo's neck, much harsher and more demanding, and the hobbit doesn't even attempt to conceal the moan that that brings out of him.

 

He sags against the furnace that is Thorin's body, breathing heavily, and, the incredibly large and warm hands seemingly all over him, his hips rock quite on their own accord. Thorin freezes for a split second, but then one palm presses gently on his hipbone, traveling in a slow motion over to his belly and lower, and Bilbo forgets how to breathe. Grasping his shoulder tenderly, the King rests his cheek against Bilbo's head.

“...Is this alright?” he mumbles against his hair, the hobbit's neck tingling with the sensation.

“...Yes,” Bilbo breathes out simply, hoarsely, “oh, yes... please, I...”

Whatever he was going to say next transforms into another moan, almost a whine, when Thorin undoes the button of his breeches and puts his hand on him. He begins working him in slow pulls, and Bilbo flings his arms around his shoulders, his head falling and forehead pressing against the dwarf's chest, the warmth threatening to dismantle him. Thorin's other hand rests on the back of Bilbo's neck, his thumb soothing the soft hairs there, only adding to the brilliant tingling sensation.

“This... will not take long,” he manages to sigh, and Thorin merely laughs and reaches even lower, and Bilbo's hips buck into his hand almost frantically.

Rocking steadily and moaning repeatedly into the nape of Thorin's neck without much care, Bilbo can feel the pressure of the King's own desire, but he cannot for the life of him do more about it than hope that his movements provide at least some pleasure. He wishes to see Thorin's face then, and it is a glorious sight, his eyes glazed over with lust, and much color returned to his cheeks. He kisses him deeply, and the sensation of the beard scraping gently against his skin, and the hunger for depth, more depth, is enough to push him over the edge, forcing him to break the kiss as a cry is ripped from his very gut, and warmth pools in his groin, his whole body swimming in relief long-unknown, his head spinning as he lays it on Thorin's chest, the intakes of air almost thirsty.

 

One heavy hand soothes his head, the other his back, and he wraps his arms around Thorin's torso as far as he can reach, speechless, overwhelmed with bliss. But it only takes some readjusting to be reminded of the fact that the dwarf is still far from finished, and Bilbo regains at least some composure and straightens up, though his muscles already feel like they're about to melt into a joyfully indifferent puddle. 

He kisses the King, languidly now, and his hands fiddle with the fly of his trousers, and then it is much more heat and tension and firmness than he'd anticipated, but he deals with it quite well, he thinks, at least judging by Thorin's whole body shuddering, his mouth hanging agape, heavy-lidded eyes following the motion of Bilbo's hand. The other one, he uses to brush stray strands of hair from the King's face, and then, cupping his cheek gently, Bilbo kisses him, making his stroking more determined. He savors Thorin slowly coming apart below him, their lips inches apart, and he knows the dwarf is close when his grip on Bilbo's shoulder tightens almost to the point of pain, and his groaning becomes almost uninhibited.

His release comes with seemingly his whole body bucking up, and a cry barked through grit teeth, and one strong arm envelops the hobbit's frame as the King rests his head on his shoulder, breathing hoarse, ragged, his hips still moving slightly, quite involuntarily, Bilbo guesses.

Sweaty chests pressed together, they lower themselves deeper into the sheets, their breathing slowly calming down. They remain like that until Bilbo all but dozes off, but then Thorin shifts slightly below him, and he looks up.

The afterglow is a true marvel on the King's face, most of his wrinkles seemingly evened out, eyes large, cheeks and lips still red as he smiles, incredibly lightly.

“I would ask if this was satisfactory...” he breathes out.

“-but you would risk making a fool out of yourself in my eyes,” Bilbo finishes for him, not without a grin, and kisses him – the best reply he can think of.

“I promise next time will be... longer,” Thorin mumbles, and Bilbo chuckles, an incredibly wonderful feeling rising in his chest at the mention of next times.

“I will hold you to that,” he retorts cheerfully, and then, the more practical side of him waking up as the sticky wetness between them becomes more palpable, “let me clean up now, will you?”

 

In the end, they settle for disposing of their trousers and cleaning off only the most necessary with the water Bilbo had brought for Thorin's wound what now seems like days ago, and they climb back into bed stark naked, the hobbit clinging to the dwarf's side as he pulls a heavy duvet over both of them. Thorin covers Bilbo's hand on his chest with his own, and before the warmth and bliss lull him completely, he hears him say: “Sleep well.”

Blubbering utter nonsense in response, and not doubting his success in that particular undertaking in the least, Bilbo nuzzles against Thorin's chest, and a slumber that's already shaping out to be the best one he's experienced in ages, washes over him at long last.

-

 

Fili doesn't think he will become King any time soon. Half of what he said to Thranduil were Balin's words, or Ori's words, and though he felt confident saying them, he knows they're all very far from seeing them become the truth. But perhaps that is the one realistic goal he can set for himself, he thinks as he watches the company celebrate after they've been told the good news – he can do what's in his power to _try,_ because for one, he's far from ignorant to Erebor's fate, and secondly... well, he _is_ the heir, after all. He thinks of Thorin as he receives all sorts of praise and listens to his kin already planning the best way to slay a dragon, and though a dull, cold ache seizes him still at the idea of his Uncle being gone for good, he takes at least some comfort in the idea that he's doing all this in his name. He's not entirely sure Thorin would approve of the aspect of the whole business that involves elves, but what do they say about desperate times...?

Besides – and here, Fili knows he's toying with ideas that would upset not only his Uncle, but possibly every other dwarf he'd present them to – if things do work out, and Erebor stands reclaimed, and whether he is crowned King or not, he thinks he will need to have a word or two with someone about the way he was taught to handle diplomacy, with elves especially. They are insufferably pompous, and living in their past, and altogether too different to be likeable, but during their time in Thranduil's Halls, he's found that they are also completely capable of somewhat normal thinking and communicating despite everything he had been told as a child, and as far as he's concerned, that's enough for any kind to be approachable.

 

The agreement stands thus – Legolas will set out with a small number of soldiers, the dwarves accompanying them, and they will reach Esgaroth and assess the situation there. Officially, the company will part ways with them there, but anyone hardly expect things to go as smoothly. They have only a very vague idea of what they're going to be arriving into, and it is more likely both parties will remain in Laketown. There is, after all, going to be a dragon in their way, not to mention others who might be interested in the story of the company of Thorin Oakenshield popping out of nowhere without their leader.

None of them dare hope too much for encountering Thorin or Bilbo there, but all of them refuse rather resolutely to think of abandoning their long-dead bodies in the forest when they do set out. 'No body, no proof,' is what Fili thinks he hears Dwalin mutter, and he decides to adopt that rule, for now.

Despite all the luck they've come by, the matters between him and Kili remain unresolved – Tauriel, who has come to say her (a bit surprising, but not unwelcome) goodbyes, laughs when she learns.

“You children!”

“This doesn't concern you,” Fili frowns at her.

“But it _is_ hilarious,” she counters lightly.

They are walking at a leisurely pace from the storage areas close to one of the side gates, where Fili just finished arguing with Bofur and Bombur about the amount of provisions they will be needing, to the library, where Ori and Kili await with this or that addition to the intricate web of possible diplomatic scenarios being prepared for their arrival at Esgaroth – they've been immersed in that ever since the Elvenking seemed so efficiently swayed by their combined thinking, and Fili's words. Neither of them would be Fili's first choice for this sort of thing, but Balin, who assists them from time to time with the historical trivia they simply cannot read in any book, actually seems impressed.

 

“Well?” Tauriel demands, “has he apologized yet?”

“...Him?” Fili all but chuckles, “I'm sure he expects it to work the other way around.”

He is still not entirely sure he wants to be discussing this with her, or anyone for that matter, but it seems like she will simply not have it any other way. He tries to think of anything he's ever done that was more peculiar than having an elf advise him on a relationship with his little brother, but nothing comes to mind. 

“I'm sure he does,” Tauriel grins, and then, almost teasing, “don't let him win, though. My image of you would go into the dumps.”

“That would be unfortunate,” Fili responds in kind, “since your opinion matters _so much._ ”

She laughs easily. 

“But honestly,” she continues, the elves passing them in the long corridors ranging from baffled to somewhat disgusted at the sight of the unlikely duo conversing so effortlessly, “I do admit your brother has some rather amiable qualities, but those have long since stopped making up for his constant need to think out loud. And the complaining!”

Fili smiles shortly.

“I'm guessing that's somewhat my fault as well,” he offers, “I haven't been very... approachable lately. He's been having a hard time.”

She glares down at him as if she can't quite take his words seriously.

“Oh, please. Not harder than you. Don't be a martyr.” 

Fili blinks up at her in confusion, and she sighs theatrically.

“Look, I'm far from taking too intense an interest in your... plight,” she supplies, “but it is obvious even to me that you've been shouldering far more than you should. I don't pretend to know anything about dwarven customs, but I'm certain you're too young to be a leader in any culture with a bit of common sense. ...Not that you're not doing an impressive job,” she adds, with surprising sincerity, and then, when he finds no words to respond, “I'd just expect your brother to realize that, and be more supportive. Again, please, don't mistake this for actual interest.”

Fili chuckles, but an uneasiness begins to weigh on him.

 

“He's trying,” he notes quietly.

“Oh, please. He's a brat,” Tauriel retorts dryly, and then, at Fili's half-shocked, half-offended grimace, she shrugs, “somebody had to say it. He's likeable, and charming enough, but it just seems to me like someone's forgotten to give him a lesson in consequences along the way. Don't let him off easy.”

Fili glares ahead, still quite incapable of answering. He's not angry with Tauriel, though she's overstepping a number of boundaries rather freely – her words are actually comforting, confirming in his mind what he hasn't been able to admit even to himself. He didn't dare think he had the right to be angry with Kili, because his brother was suffering just as much as he was. He would blame himself over and over again, for not talking to him often enough, for not listening, because, after all, it's what he's been taught since childhood – _be there for your little brother, save him from harm, he can do no wrong._ Now is perhaps not the time to get upset about his upbringing, but the elf's brash words make him start reevaluating a thing or two. 

“He does love you,” Tauriel says then, softly, regaining his attention, “that much is obvious. But he's much less fragile than you think. Give him some credit, and treat him like an adult... Oh, for crying out loud, I can't believe I'm saying this to you. I am ruined by dwarves!”

 

He can't help it, he laughs at her ironically desperate outburst. 

“ _I_ can't believe I'm saying _this,_ ” he states, “but thank you. I am... glad that I met you. I think.”

Her laughter is genuine and cheerful.

“This is history in the making,” she jokes, “they will sing songs of this day. _'I am glad I met you'_. Oh, Valar preserve us. You know what, I hope you _do_ manage to become King. Out of all the dwarves I've ever met, you are by far the most agreeable one.”

“Oh, Mahal,” he chuckles, “don't let this be heard in front of the company. My reputation would crumble.”

 

They amuse each other and discuss their plans for the great future of dwarves fighting side by side with elves, until it's time to part ways, Tauriel being summoned on business, and Fili greeted by Ori and Kili, both suspicious of the sudden change in his demeanor.

He bids farewell to the elven Captain, who promises to come wave them off the next day when they're leaving, and then he's left with the two.

“What is this, then?” Kili demands, and Fili's spirits are so high he barely even registers the cool edge to his tone.

“Oh, a historical occasion,” he states lightly, “I think I've just met the first elf I'd be willing to appoint Dwarf-friend.”

Ori stares at him in horror until he realizes he's joking, and Kili merely chuckles sardonically.

“Oh, lovely,” he mumbles, and they make their way into the library side by side, and it's enough for now, “imagine what Thorin would say.”

 

“I am imagining it,” Fili replies with a smile, and resists the urge to put his arm around his brother, “lucky I'm not him.”

-

 

Waking up to the warmth of another body close by is a feeling Bilbo did not know he needed so much, but knows he will not be willing to trade for anything for a long time now. Thorin lays on his stomach, arms hugging the pillow under his head, and because he's facing the other way, Bilbo gets a rather splendid view of his bare shoulders, and the long locks cascading off them. The King's body really is radiating quite an impressive amount of heat – Bilbo can feel it even though he's not touching him.

He lays on his back, staring at the ceiling, his fingers tangling into Thorin's hair ever so carefully, and an entirely silly smile spreads over his face at the realization that the night before was everything but a dream. He scrapes at the dwarf's scalp absentmindedly, and one large hand finds his fingers when he least expects it. Thorin rolls over, and Bilbo is still unsure what to expect from him – in the end, finding himself under his body, the impossible width of the King's chest seemingly taking up the whole of his view, and his locks framing both their faces, turns out to be perhaps the most agreeable option.

“M-morning,” Bilbo mutters, his hands resting on the dwarf's shoulders lightly, almost carefully.

“Good morning,” Thorin sighs, and kisses him without much ado.

 

...And they could spend the day like that, really. The only thing that eventually makes them get out of bed, cheeks hot, hair ruined and lips puffed and reddened from the extensive assurances that indeed, they are going to continue this as soon as possible, is their shared hunger. Downstairs in the kitchen, Matylda greets them as usual, obviously merely pretending not to take notice of their quite ridiculous appearance – they manage to get through breakfast more or less civilly, without behaving like lovesick teenagers, but then Thorin goes to relieve himself, and Bilbo goes about making them generous portions of tea, and all it takes is Tylda's raised eyebrow and a smile, and he breaks, confessing.

“Well, that's a relief,” Matylda states, “honestly, it was getting a bit ridiculous.”

“What was?” Ludo, freshly woken up, wants to know.

“Oh, nothing, nothing.”

But he keeps guessing and guessing, and it only ever occurs to him after Thorin has picked Bilbo up, and they hear him exclaim 'Oh, _that!_ ', and hurry up the stairs at double the speed.

 

They find the most comfort in staying in bed, as the weather is positively dreary, all wind and dim grey sky, and what looks like snow, but turns out to be more of a damp, persistent drizzle. Head nested in the nook of Thorin's shoulder, Bilbo chatters about the current happenings in the Shire, though merely guessing haphazardly at the actual date, as he hasn't been keeping proper track, and the King interjects with a remark, or a question, and for at least that one blissful morning, they allow themselves no further distractions.

Some merciless fun at Thorin's expense is had when Bilbo finds the old letter he'd received from him before the fire, and he recites it out loud while the dwarf's face twists in a pained grimace.

“... _and I trust you will remain..._ oh, _honestly,_ Thorin? In _health and merriment?_ ”

“Oh, don't,” the King groans, “I know, I was a fool. ...I'm sorry.”

And he goes to press a kiss on the hobbit's temple, but he wriggles out of his arms and climbs into his lap.

“That's touching,” he announces, “but you're not quite forgiven yet. At the very least, I reserve the right to tease you some more.”

The King's brows furrow, but he soon smiles.

“Fair enough.”

 

They don't dare satisfy their mutual desire much beyond kisses and fleeting touches, though, sharing some prudence regarding the masters of the house not being too far away, and their own inhibitions much higher than they were last night. Fortunately, they don't feel the need to discuss their transforming relationship either, and find themselves entirely content with simply sharing each other's company.

After lunch (descending the stairs a little sheepishly and being greeted perhaps a tad too enthusiastically), they manage to fall asleep so swiftly, it's as if their bodies have decided to take their toll for all the stress and insomnia (for Thorin confesses to Bilbo at some point that he as well had been having trouble sleeping) of the past days.

They wake up late into the afternoon, the sun already setting, and they find Ludo has gone on his regular scouting trip without Thorin, which the dwarf expresses some guilt over. But Matylda assures them both over and over again that really, all is well, until they relent and manage to enjoy the early dinner.

“I didn't know it was possible to get your hands on cilantro this late,” Bilbo comments as he helps Matylda clean out the embers from the kiln, the exotic taste of the broth still strong in his mouth.

“Oh, yes, I have a friend in Minas Tirith who sent a fresh batch. Probably the last one, though.”

“I see. Extraordinary! ...Oh, no, let me.”

He takes the scuttle from her hands, and, managing to catch a short smile from Thorin and reciprocate it, he sets out to clean it out in the backyard.

“Remind me to write you a recipe!” Tylda calls.

“Yes, yes,” he mumbles as he balances the heavy container in his hands as he struggles to close the door behind him, “that would be quite lovely, I think...- _ahh!_ ”

 

He drops the coals onto his feet as two arms wrap around him from behind, and his whole body freezes when he feels the cold of a blade on his throat, and a palm is plastered over his mouth.

“Bilbo?” Matylda laughs from inside, the beautifully lit inside that has warmth, and safety, and Thorin, “are you alright?”

But he cannot answer, of course he cannot, until the knife twists against his skin, the grip of the hand over his mouth loosening marginally.

“Speak,” the person behind him hisses.

It is Flint, Bilbo realizes, and his stomach lurches.

“You're alright,” the man suggests, very obviously nothing but threatening, removing his hand slowly, his dagger now at what Bilbo guesses is a very dangerous angle to his throat.

“I... I'm alright, it's nothing, I slipped,” he squeaks.

“Do you need help?” Tylda wants to know, without a care in the world, and Bilbo feels tears prickling in his eyes, of anger more that anything, the cold nipping at his feet and poorly covered upper body.

“You need the dwarf to come help you,” Flint utters in his ear then, and Bilbo's eyes widen in shock.

“No,” he hears himself say in a tone that is much more resolute than he's actually feeling, “no.”

“I said,” the man hisses, twisting his blade so that it draws blood, suffocating Bilbo's whimper with his hand yet again, “you need. The dwarf. To come help you. Now.”

A single ridiculous tear trickles down Bilbo's cheek, leaving a cold trail behind, and he gulps.

“T-Thorin,” he stutters, then, louder as Flint growls, “Thorin! ...Can you... can you come help me, please?”

 

He grits his teeth so hard he almost sees stars, to fight off the shivers as the cold gradually gets to him, and to just plain stop himself from bursting into tears as the sounds from inside the house suggest that Thorin has gotten up from the table and is now headed their way. He tries to come up with a way out of this misery, but his mind is swimming in a blinding haze of fear, fury and helplessness, and he almost groans out loud when he remembers that his ring rests in the pocket of his vest in the bedroom upstairs.

Thorin stands on the back porch, his silhouette regal and endlessly beautiful in the golden light coming from inside, and Bilbo's chest swells so painfully he wants to scream and kick. But the sight of the King unmoving and calm even after he sees and assesses the situation, forces him to try and retain his cool as well, as best he can.

“You,” Thorin huffs, “what do you want?”

Bilbo cannot see his eyes well in the shadows, but they glint as strongly as always, and it seems to him that the King's gaze flickers in his direction for a fleeting second, and it's enough.

 

“You!” Flint exclaims cheerfully, “you're worth a lot of money, _King under the Mountain!_ ”

“And you're a man associating with orcs,” Thorin replies, the tone of his voice colder than the snow they're standing in, and more menacing than any blizzard, “I don't think I've ever encountered such scum in all my life.”

“Oh, oh, yes! Funny,” Flint blubbers like a madman, while his arm snakes even tighter around Bilbo's shoulders, effectively pinning him in place, “I'm assuming Ludo hasn't told you the whole story yet? Lovely!”

“He told us enough,” Thorin growls, taking a cautious step forward, then another one.

Flint only reacts when the dwarf's boots crunch in the snow, his fingers tipping Bilbo's head backwards by his chin, his elbow going up in an almost lazy arc, so that the blade is now in exactly the position to slit the hobbit's throat at a second's notice.

“Now, now, now,” the man says sweetly, “no need for unnecessary violence. Let us talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” Thorin retorts dryly, his eyes fixed not on the dagger on Bilbo's neck, but on the man's face, his movements.

Bilbo feels his heart fluttering in his chest like a rabbit's, and his feet are getting very, very cold. He considers a number of silly, valiant moves, like elbowing Flint in the stomach, but the chances at success come out too low for his liking.

 

“Oh, I could think of a thing or two,” Flint states, “for example, has your generous host ever told you about the day he saved your lives? How much do you remember, huh, besides almost dying on that beautiful meadow? Oh, you were lucky you were unconscious!”

Bilbo and Thorin exchange a quick glance, and the King shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

“We trust Ludo,” Thorin states simply, and Flint chuckles, an insincere, high-pitched sound that makes Bilbo's gut crawl.

“You shouldn't,” the man breathes out sinisterly, “you really shouldn't.”

Bilbo yelps when he is kneed in his thigh, and Flint begins dragging him excruciatingly slowly in a semi circle around the back yard, further from the house. 

“You see,” the man speaks, but Bilbo only cares for Thorin, whose eyes widen, and he follows them, step by careful step, “I trusted him. Oh, I trusted him _a lot._ We were in this together. We were partners, and we were going to make _some_ money off you right there, sir. You know, little Bilbo, you were there.”

A momentary confusion flashes over Thorin's face.

“Ah, yes, your short friend here has quite a few tricks up his sleeve,” Flint notes almost happily, “a magic ring, I believe? ...Anyway, he interrupted me when I was just about to explain to Ludo the meaning of the word _integrity._ Oh, we could have made _such money._ But alas, I am betrayed – which also means the reward is all mine, and I'm going to claim it, if you don't mind. Shame, considering Ludo was the one the orcs always liked more.”

“Bilbo?” comes a call from inside then, “Thorin? Is everything...-”

“Stay inside!” the hobbit and the dwarf shout unanimously, and Flint giggles.

 

“Oh, the wife. Poor, poor Matylda. Traveled the world, did you know? Still, knows nothing about her husband's little love affair with Azog the Defiler.”

Bilbo gasps, and Thorin looks as if he's been struck.

“Oh, yes,” the man all but sings, “the Pale Orc. Menacing, menacing fellow, but you probably know all about that, don't you, Thorin Oakenshield? Oh my, what a story, what a story.”

It finally occurs to Bilbo then, that the man is completely mad – not lusting after money, not slightly on the peculiar side; but thoroughly, utterly insane. His fear is now an almost deafening roar in his ears, fed to the point of panic at the sight of Thorin, who seems like he's losing solid ground under his feet, his eyes darting helplessly from Flint to Bilbo and back. He wants nothing more in that moment than to be able to stand by his side and offer comfort, but no, of course – when do the two of them ever catch a break?

“...I don't believe you,” Thorin breathes out, “Ludo is... a good man. He saved our lives, and offered us shelter...-”

“How _touching!_ ” Flint all but screams, and jerks unexpectedly so that the blade scrapes at Bilbo's skin, causing him to whimper, “what a _kind soul!_ Oh, if only you knew! When was the last time you checked-”

 

The sound is something Bilbo will keep trying to forget until his dying day – something between cracking an egg and hammering flat a slab of meat, accompanied by an almost gentle gasp in Bilbo's ear, and then the pressure is gone from his neck and he has enough sense to jump away. Behind him, Flint falls to his knees, and when he keels over, a muffled cry escapes the hobbit – an ax is embedded in his skull, blood already pouring down his neck, and tinting the snow red when he lands in it face first.

Bilbo is utterly incapable of any movement, blind to everything but the terrifying sight before him, until he hears an urgent: “Are ya alright?!”

Ludo hurries to them from behind the barn where he must have been hiding, and Bilbo realizes that he threw the ax over what is not by any means a short distance, and he really, really needs to sit down... An arm wraps around his shoulders, and he lets go that very instant, his legs giving way, and only Thorin's firm grasp holds him upright from then on. Realizing his hands are shaking, and his knees are threatening to betray him as well, Bilbo gets a grip on the front of Thorin's shirt, without planning to let go in the foreseeable future.

He is jolted back into reality when the King bends over and pulls the ax out of the dead man's head (accompanied by another sound Bilbo will wish he could forget), and aims it at Ludo, who's approaching them.

 

“...Thorin?” the lumberjack inquires carefully, “what is going on? Give me that.”

But the dwarf backs up a few steps, all but dragging poor Bilbo along.

“First, you're going to explain yourself,” he growls.

 

And Bilbo expects Ludo to ask more questions, to assure them of his innocence, _anything_ but the man's round, earnest face seemingly evening out, eyes narrowing, jaw setting tighter – it's like he's taken an invisible mask off it, and what's underneath is nothing short of frightening.

Ludo's eyes glint in the faint light of the lanterns swaying on the back porch, and, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a deep, ragged sigh, he says in a horribly calm, lifeless voice: “How much did he tell you?”

 

Thorin's hand on Bilbo's shoulder squeezes, and the hobbit gulps dryly as the King lets go of him and stands straight, tall, the bloodied ax in both his hands now a promise of everything but peace to come, and replies simply: “Enough.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, stick a fork in me 'coz I'm done, et cetera, et cetera. I'm not even going to pretend I had an easy time writing this - inspiration isn't what it was under the pine trees in Tuscany a month ago :') But alas, here we are. I think I'm dumping the idea of adhering to any sort of word count right here and now, because this has almost 20k, and that's just... ridiculous. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed it, and I applaud you if you managed to read it!


	6. Burning Bridges

Winter has come. The change is sudden, the air a good many degrees colder and fresher once they leave the damp, dreary canopy of Mirkwood's treetops behind. The light is almost blinding, the white dashes of first snow blanketing the ground further ahead an almost ethereal sight to the eyes of dwarves, accustomed to nothing else but the shadows and dark corners of the Elvenking's Halls for the past... how long has it been...?

Fili surveys his company as they trudge down the narrow path snaking down a hill and around the last rocks of the forest's mountains – in proper daylight, it becomes obvious at last just how much their stay in Mirkwood has worn them down. Their faces and ruined garments in similar shades of grim grey, and heaving bags of provisions and tools, they look everything but ready to take on the journey ahead, much less a dragon at the end of it.

 

“We should reach Laketown in three days' time, if we maintain a good pace,” Legolas at his side supplies, and Fili scoffs, the elf looking fresher than all twelve dwarves combined.

“We'll see about that,” he sighs, then, raising his voice, “come on! We've done it! Real world again, look alive!”

He receives a chorus of groans, muttering, and even a few hollered curses in response, but he can't help but smile. In the end they do manage to set out at an agreeable speed, even though the elves accompanying them hurry ahead and let their belief to the contrary show without much restraint. Fili doesn't care – the Lonely Mountain looms on the horizon like a beacon, swimming in mist but always visible, and he points all his efforts towards it.

“...I've been meaning to thank you,” he tells Legolas some time in the middle of the day, lingering behind the company, currently going through their repertoire of old miners' working songs, loudly and utterly without care for the elves' obvious dismay.

“For...?” Legolas wonders.

“You... Well, you were the one who suggested bringing us along for this journey.”

The elf raises his eyebrows.

“And...?”

Fili frowns.

“And, well... I don't think your Father would ever let us go. You... I'm given to understand you went against his will.”

Legolas chuckles.

“That I did. But not for you. Perhaps with you in mind, but not for your benefit.”

“...What does that mean?” Fili inquires.

 

The prince marches wordlessly for quite a while, then turns to look at Fili as if he's searching for something in his face.

“My Father banned us from leaving the forest, or engaging anyone besides our kin, did you know?” he tells him then, surprisingly earnestly.

“...Why?”

“To protect us. He has known of the dangers brewing far longer than the men of Laketown, or anyone else. He knows not of a better way to preserve us from the ways of the world beyond the forest's border, than to remain in the forest forever. He strives to achieve peace, but all he achieves is... the bliss of ignorance.”

Fili can't help but smirk at the elf's disdain, almost childish in its fervor.

“Is that why you left?” he offers, “to spite him?”

“...To show him that rather than forgetting the world outside Mirkwood and its affairs, we should contribute!” Legolas states harshly, his pace quickening without his knowing, Fili suspects as he speeds up to match it.

Silence follows.

“...Also I was bored,” the elf concedes then, and Fili bursts into laughter so genuine that some of the company ahead turn to see what's going on.

He waves them off cheerfully.

“...Well, thank you for remembering to bring us along,” he says.

Legolas nods, not without a small smile.

“...You're welcome.”

 

That night they spend outside, huddled around a fire large enough to warm them all up – the elves go scouting ahead as the dwarves eat, and claim no danger after they return, but still, unused to the vastness of the starry sky above him and the wilderness around, Fili listens rather than sleeps, long into the night, his ears cheating him and catching what sounds too much like a warg howl every now and then, even over the soft murmur of the Forest River below the slope they're camping on. But he does manage to welcome slumber eventually, and wakes up to the last embers of the fire dying in a thin stripe of smoke, and his company unharmed, rime setting in their beards like a delicate silvery net.

 

They see the river slow down as the terrain changes considerably, flowing through a much wider and shallower bed – they begin seeing fields and even small buildings scattered through the landscape, and meet the first few men shortly afterward, fishers or lumberers. The first village they pass through is just a few houses, really, its inhabitants glaring at them with unconcealed suspicion as they pass.

They notice the smoke shortly afterward.  
“Orcs?” someone suggests, the lone farm before their eyes ransacked and scorched, its inhabitants gone without a trace.

“The stench is unmistakable,” Legolas confirms.

“They must have been just passing,” Fili says, “otherwise that village would have looked much worse.”

He exchanges a look with Balin, who is frowning, and a short, fleeting one with Kili, who is inspecting the debris with the tip of his boot.

“...We'd better hurry,” he sighs.

 

They find shelter in an inn in a nameless harbor, long after the sun has set behind the Lonely Mountain, lending it a bright halo of rich violets and oranges, its close proximity filling the heart of every dwarf in the company with an incredible yearning, most of them already dreaming of walking its bridges and lighting its halls. They are accepted warily, but – offering a solid pay – without much ado. They must be quite the sight, dwarves sitting in a close circle around a number of tables shoved together, elves standing in the corners of the room, too small and dim and cozy for their gleaming armor and stern faces.

Fili doesn't think he's tasted such delicious ale in his whole life, and the others seem equally excited – the evening is shaping up to turn into one of those he thought he'd never experience again, with its loudness, and laughter, and cheer. A warmth unlike anything he's felt in a long time washing over him, he listens to his kin already trying to figure out the best way to slay the dragon and divide the spoils, or laugh at the expense of elves as the night progresses, and he thinks of Thorin.

He remembers his Mother, ' _You let me know the second you step foot in Erebor so I can come as well'_ ,and _'If anything happens to my sons on your watch you are a dead man, Thorin Oakenshield'_ , and _'Take care of your little brother'_ , and he announces a toast before he can stop himself: “To Thorin.”

They freeze, as is to be expected, but there is no dismay in their features at that, simply grief long-repressed resurfacing, and they nod and mumble, hanging their heads, letting shadows creep into their faces, their voices somber and serious, but clear, as they repeat, scattered and uneven at first, then, all together: “To Thorin. ...To Thorin!”

“...And Bilbo!” Ori reminds them sheepishly.

“To Thorin and Bilbo, then,” Fili states, “wherever they may be. I doubt we would have gotten far without them.”

“...We'll reclaim the kingdom in Thorin's name,” Dwalin adds gruffly.

“Hear hear.”

“...And steal a few golden ingots each in the burglar's?”

 

...And laughter resumes, and they toast, and Fili feels an enormous weight being lifted off his shoulders. He excuses himself and wanders out into the night for a breath of fresh air, around the time they've coaxed Legolas into starting a drinking contest with them, and he walks down to the river, his drowsiness dulling the sounds from the inside and the lights and tangling them into a pleasantly sweet concoction of peace and familiarity. The old and beaten wood of the wharf creaks under his feet, and he sinks down, wrapping his arm around the railing, half for comfort, half for stability. The mountain is like a dark patch, a plaster over the starlit sky on the horizon, and he doesn't even attempt to focus on it, simply gazes at it, thinking he can indulge himself in that feeling of accomplishment, at least momentarily.

The water and the breeze converse in a soft murmur, and if he listens for a familiar weight of steps approaching him, he isn't particularly disappointed when they don't. He only ever gets back up to his feet when it starts snowing, and meets Balin in the doorway.

“Everything alright, lad?”

Fili smiles, and lays a hand on the old dwarf's shoulder.

“Absolutely,” he sighs, and he means it, and then, looking back over his shoulder one last time, “good night, Balin. Tomorrow we're going home.”

 

And it is a quick trek. Refreshed by the good night's sleep and warm food, the dwarves march steadily and with determination, and soon after lunch, they can see the Great Lake glimmering on the horizon, the rooftops of Laketown a pool of soft blues and browns half-concealed in soft white smoke from the many chimneys and fires, the Lonely Mountain on the far side of the water towering over it all, greyish puffs that could easily be mistaken for clouds rising from the main entrance, or so it seems.

The ruckus becomes apparent soon, as they walk into the city almost unnoticed, people everywhere hurrying, scurrying, loading carriages and horses, as if preparing to move elsewhere all at once, and no one seems to have the time to pay mind to the strange company. That is, until they reach what seems to be the center of the part of the town that is still on solid ground, and happen upon a gathering of men.

“We cannot waste anymore men,” a tall man with a brooding brow in the middle announces, “it's been almost two weeks, I think it's safe to assume the last scouting party isn't going to return! We need to send our women and children away, and reinforce here, in spite of what the Master says...- hey! Hey you! Who are you?”

 

The question couldn't be aimed at them any more clearly, as the man leaves the circle of those surrounding him and takes a few cautious steps towards them, the heavy longbow slung over his shoulder making many a dwarf reconsider their stance and reach for their own weapons. But Fili steps forward, ignoring Legolas' cautious look and Kili's stern one, ignoring the humans amassing suddenly and seemingly out of nowhere, and says clearly:

“We are the dwarves of Erebor, and we've come to reclaim our homeland.”

-

 

“What on earth is going on?”

 

The air is freezing, the snowflakes sent by the relentless wind like thousands of tiny daggers against his cheeks, and his head is spinning violently, eyes burning as he squints to see – this is possibly the worst situation he's found himself in since the beginning of this wretched adventure, and that's saying something. Oh, what he'd give to be back on the other side of the Misty Mountains, trying to outsmart trolls, or outrun wargs, or even face that peculiar little creature, Gollum! 

But no, as fate would have it, he is barely standing in the middle of what's shaping up to be a snowstorm as Thorin brandishes his ax in an outwardly offensive stance, their host before them revealed to be everything but the kind and honest man they've come to know him as, and to top it all off, Matylda hurries out of the house and into the very middle of the mess, all genuine concern and blissful ignorance. And he doesn't want her to lose that, he wants her to go back into her warm home, her figure feeble in the increasingly violent weather, the hastily gathered shawl flapping about her shoulders. But most of all, he wishes he could undo the horror in her eyes, and the frightened sound she makes at the sight of the dead body in the snow.

 

“...Ludo?” she all but squeaks, “what is this? Who...?”

The lumberjack flinches, his stance wavering for a fleeting moment, and his eyes dart in his wife's direction. He makes to step towards her, but Thorin swishes his weapon in a low, menacing arc.

“Explain yourself,” he growls, regaining Ludo's attention.

“I'm sorry,” the man says, and it is unclear whom it's aimed at, “honestly. I never meant for it to go this far.”

“For _what_ to go this far? What are you talking about? ...Please come inside,” Tylda says weakly, seeking out Bilbo, who does not possess the strength to even look her in the eye at the moment.

“Thorin,” he says instead, in what he hopes is a somewhat steady voice, “we... we don't even know whats' going on here, really. Surely we can discuss this inside...”

“No,” the dwarf retorts curtly, “take Matylda inside, but I will not move until _he_ explains himself.”

“Thorin, be reasonable...”

“ _Reasonable?_ ” the King snarls, “didn't you hear what Flint said, Bilbo?! No one who has anything to do with Azog deserves me being _reasonable!_ ”

“If you would just listen...-” Ludo utters.

“I _am_ listening! Speak!”

“Not like this. Not with an ax pointed at me.”

Thorin scoffs, and it's dry and lifeless and _terrifying._

“I'm afraid that's the only way to go.”

 

“ _Enough!_ ”

Matylda steps in between the dwarf and the man, and she is visibly shivering, and laughably tiny compared to the two, but her eyes have an almost ferocious glint to them.

“I will not have this!” she states, her voice wobbly, but increasingly more determined, “I have no idea what is happening, but there is _a dead body_ in my backyard, and far too many weapons for my liking! _Both of you_ put your damn axes down or I will _make you!_ ”

“Bilbo, please take Matylda inside,” Thorin demands once more, completely disregarding her words, “I want you two to be safe of this.” 

“I want _you_ to be safe of this!” Bilbo exclaims, and then he's standing next to Tylda, and it's far too cold and too late for all of it, he decides.

“Matylda's right! Enough... enough violence for one night! _Please,_ Thorin, I know you're distressed, but let Ludo say his part.”

“ _Inside,_ ” Tylda adds sharply.

Thorin opens his mouth to say some more, in his eyes a dangerous gleam Bilbo has come to know far too well, but he counters it bravely.

“Come,” Bilbo tells him almost gently, softly, raising his hand in a feeble calming gesture, “I'm certain there's an explanation to all of this.”

 

Thorin glares at him, and the wind has picked up and tosses his hair about his face violently, the sight of him in nothing but a tunic against the cold causing the hobbit considerable pain.

“Please,” he says once more.

Thorin grits his teeth, jaw clenching, and his gaze dashes from Bilbo to Ludo. Then at last, he exhales through his nose, lowering and dropping the ax with a groan, spinning on his heel and marching towards the house. Bilbo lets out a shaky breath and hurries after him.

 

Inside, the dwarf paces in front of the fireplace, restlessly and angrily, and Bilbo can't but look on, wringing his hands and attempting to come up with a solution to this wretched business. Matylda appears next to him shortly after, and Ludo sinks into his armchair.

“Are ya willing tae listen?” he asks, and the King all but growls at him.

“Speak your mind before I change mine.”

“ _Somebody_ bring me up to speed, _right now,_ ” Tylda demands.

“Just listen,” Ludo says calmly, almost wearily, and doesn't see the incredulous, almost offended look his wife grants him, because he's glaring at Thorin.

“That night Flint came at me in the hut,” he begins, and the dwarf frowns grimly, gazing into the fire, “I... what I told ya wasn't exactly true. He came to me, because we had... an arrangement. ...Regardin' you two.”

“...With Azog the Defiler?” Thorin breathes out.

“Yes, _but._ But!” Ludo raises his voice in response to the King's furious groan, “listen. Bilbo was there. Ya heard me sayin' I wanted out.”

“I'm sorry, but that explains _nothing at all_ ,” Bilbo states, “how did you come by Azog in the first place? And _why_ was Flint telling us about that day you saved our lives? He said... he said...”

“He said we were lucky we were unconscious,” Thorin finishes for him, “I want to know everything, and I want to know _now,_ before I lose my patience with you. Have you been _conspiring_ with the orcs behind our backs the whole time we have been staying here?”

“...That raid,” Bilbo squeaks almost involuntarily, remembering with a jolt, “Flint came, and then the orcs the night after that... Was that you?”

Silence takes over the room, its coziness and warmth painfully ridiculous considering the present situation. Bilbo sees then that Matylda is still shivering, certainly not from the cold anymore, and her eyes, though bright and fiery, are brimming with tears. He cannot begin to imagine what it must be like, having everything you've known, loved and felt safe with be ripped from you. He's had his fair share of unpleasant doubt and insecurity on this journey, but in his case it was usually uncertainty about the possibility of dinner, or a decent place to sleep. Never like this.

“Ludo,” Tylda all but whispers, and her voice is hoarse and lifeless, which is much worse than any sort of tearful pleading or angry shouting in Bilbo's book, “ _please_ tell me what's going on.”

 

The man gazes at her, an inexplicable sadness tainting his features, and Bilbo's eyes seek out Thorin's – the dwarf looks away though, hanging his head heavily.

“Very well,” Ludo says at last, “but it is a long story.”

“Just talk,” Thorin utters dryly, and, to Bilbo's immense relief, goes to sit on a chair in front of him.

He lays his hand on his shoulder, fingers tangling into his hair, still damp from the outside, and the King leans into the touch almost imperceptibly, one eye blinking up at Bilbo gratefully for a split second.

“First, let me say that yer both safe,” Ludo supplies, “ye might not believe me, but no harm will come to ya under my roof.”

“...Anymore?” Bilbo mutters dryly, and Ludo frowns, but nods curtly.

Thorin tenses under his touch, but says nothing.

“Well then...” the lumberjack begins, suddenly seemingly at a loss for words, “I... Long before I met me wife, I was a Ranger of the North.”

“...Who's that now?” Bilbo can't help but wonder, for even in a situation as tense as this one, his curiosity seems to be getting the better of him.

“The Rangers are... protectors. Our goal was tae patrol the northern lands and protect them from the evil comin' from Angmar. Ya don't know us because yer not supposed to. I even protected the borders of the Shire for a time, but a Ranger is rarely seen. We live that way.”

“Get on with it,” Thorin sighs.

“...I saw a lot of foul things come out of Carn Dum and the mountains, Azog among them. He comes from Gundabad, which is a peak few of us ever saw with our own eyes, but most of us knew more than enough about. But I was young, and utterly foolish. Far too confident for me own good. There was talk of other Rangers disappearin' in the Gundabad region, so naturally, I crossed the mountains just to see what the fuss was about, and to prove meself. That's where I saw Azog first. His orcs captured me, just like the others. Didn't kill me. Brought me over to their lair. That's where I found the others, five or six of 'em, just... slavin' away. Why, I didn't know.”

His face is twisted in a pained grimace now, cheekbones sharpened by the dim glow of the fire and the deep shadows settled in. Thorin's breathing under Bilbo's palm is calm, even, but he senses the tension still when Ludo grants them a short look.

 

“I was thrown in with the others. We did the foulest jobs, assemblin' their buildings and weaponry, tendin' to wargs, who would try to eat us every chance they got, of course... We didn't know why the orcs wouldn't just kill us. By gods, we were prayin' for it most days. It took us a long time to figure out they were plannin' somethin'. Buildin' roads and carriages, bringin' in a lot of game... They were going to leave Gundabad, but we didn't know that. That was when Azog summoned us. Fed us. Let us sleep. That terrified us out of our wits, obviously. Two of the men had died by then, there were four of us, I think. And the Pale Orc made us an offer. Told us he'd send us to investigate Carn Dum. Can you imagine? This was once the realm of the Witch King! We told him we'd rather die, he said we had that choice. That we could come to him at any time, and he would gladly kill us – but if we did this for 'im, become his... his spies, he'd clothe us, and feed us.

I don't know how it occurred to us that he really needed us. We didn't know why. They wanted to regain Carn Dum for themselves, but I didn't find that out until much later. We only reckoned if we managed to regain our strength, maybe we could flee, and make way for Eriador again. ...But the others were too hasty, they wanted to run right away. I told them to wait, that we didn't have the prospects or the strength, but they said they'd rather leave me behind than spend one more day in that forsaken land. ...I let them go, and... saw them brought down before me own eyes, by the orcs who had followed us without our knowin'. I was the only one left, and I thought I was surely goin' to die then.

But Azog told me then, said 'if you wanna live, you'll live as one of us'. That was the last time I was to hear the Common tongue in... years. I was to speak their language from then on. I ate with them and hunted with them and sparred with them – they tossed me about like a doll. They were just waitin' for me to give in and die.”

 

Bilbo notices then that Matylda is weeping, utterly silently, standing stock still next to her husband's armchair, still shorter than Ludo even though he's sitting down. He remembers all the times he'd attempted to ask her about the man's past, and it was never met with an outright refusal, but rather a... carefully controlled lack of information.

“You know all this,” he supplies, and Tylda blinks at him as if waking from a sort of haze.

She smiles shortly, bitterly, not even attempting to wipe her tears away.

“Of course,” she says unexpectedly strongly, almost proudly, “I'm his wife.”

She lays her hand on Ludo's shoulder, as if mirroring Bilbo, and the man exhales heavily.

“Well, as ye can see, I survived. I became... well, I stopped bein' human for a bit, that's for sure. I even rode a warg, y'know. ...Azog managed to retake Carn Dum, and was gatherin' forces. Goblins were comin' in, and other orcs from who knows where. Somethin' was brewin' up. I didn't even care about anythin' much at that point – I just knew I wanted Azog to trust me enough to tell me. I don't wanna put ya off more than you already are, so let's just say I succeeded in the end.

He said with the Witch King gone, he would claim his realm an' retake Eriador for himself. Not a pinch of guilt stirred in me at that. I was just glad that he sent me in the first line when he finally decided to start raidin' the first villages past North Downs.”

 

Thorin shifts in the chair, and Bilbo can't see his face, but he senses the anger building up again. Almost instinctively, he adds his other hand so that he rests one on either of the dwarf's shoulders. He needs the touch perhaps a bit more than Thorin does – he feels sick to his stomach, terrified of the calm, lifeless tone Ludo is telling his story with. There is nothing for him, no safety, no certainty in the room now besides Thorin, and so he holds onto him, just to make sure he's real at all. The King exhales slowly, raggedly, his fingertips brushing over Bilbo's knuckles momentarily – it's enough.

“I killed people,” Ludo says then, dryly, and Bilbo flinches, “murdered those I had once been protectin'. I didn't even see it, y'know, until one day we came to a village near Fornost, I don't... I don't even remember its name, but it was a village I used to visit a lot durin' my Ranger duties, it had this beautiful inn I would stay at... An' there was a girl, in the middle of the night, I think I found her cryin' over her parents' bodies, an' she must've been so little when I was there last, but she recognized me. I must've looked horrible, gods know, but she said... she said 'It's you! Yer the Ranger!', an' I couldn't even reply to her properly, I think I wouldn't even have spoken in the right tongue if I tried, but she said 'Please help me', and I...

Well, I ran. I left the village behind, I left the orcs behind, and I ran and ran until I thought me lungs were gonna burst. I never really stopped until I reached Gondor. It might've taken me a year, or ten, I don't know. I just knew I wanted to get as far as possible from that village an' that girl an' all the things I'd done. ...I found decent work in Edhellond – a harbor on the other side of the world from Gundabad. It was perfect. I managed to heal enough to be able to be among people again. Also, no Rangers would ever come that far south, I knew, so no one recognized me there. It took me years, but I finally mustered enough courage to travel. Minas Tirith and Osgiliath was as far as I was willin' to go, but it turned out I didn't need to go any further – I met Matylda, and, well... she saved me life. I told her everythin' eventually an' I was ready to scare her off, but she stayed.”

 

Silence follows. A short smile flashes across Tylda's face, and her small hand squeezes Ludo's large shoulder.

“...That's touching,” Thorin says sternly, “but it still does not explain our present situation.”

“...No,” Ludo concedes, hanging his head, “I know. Well... alright. That day I saved you two from the orcs... I talked to the last one I let live. Hadn't spoken their tongue in years, and it just... came over me. I asked him who you were, an' what they were chasin' ya for. As soon as I heard Azog's name... I told him to run back to the Pale Orc. I should've killed 'im. Should've never given 'im the chance to tell Azog just who he saw. ...It was a miracle he didn't come claim ya himself right the next day.”

“A miracle indeed,” Thorin snarls.

“...I'm sorry.”

“I don't doubt that. Continue.”

“Things were quiet for a long time. Until I received a message, written in the orcs' tongue so that only I knew what it was about. I found it in me hut one day, jus' lyin' there. It said the Pale Orc would be... would be claimin' ye himself in some time. ...An' that we were tae meet, in the Grey Mountains. I certainly had no intention of ever goin' there, but I knew I needed to sort it out, else they'd come runnin' straight for the Mill sooner or later. ...I called on Flint to help me. He was... an old acquaintance way back from Edhellond, an' he'd always been the one for talkin' his way out of things. I promised him... a lot of money if he were to go to the Grey Mountains instead of me. He agreed, but a note came when he was about halfway there – the orcs were gatherin' there. The group who had chased ya were the last Azog sent after ya before he moved north with his host. 

Flint traveled through Esgaroth, and saw the Lonely Mountain – it was calm at the time, but already, somethin' was happenin' further north according to him. He said he wouldn't be plungin' headfirst into an army of orcs and who knows what else, and I didn't hear from 'im for a long time after that.

He made contact with me again when... I...”

Ludo stops then, a desperate look in his wife's direction making it obvious that whatever he's going to say next, he does not want her to hear.

“Continue,” Thorin beckons him harshly, interrupting Bilbo, who was about to suggest a gentler approach, as his nature dictates, “you got this far.”

 

The man's brows furrow in a pained scowl. He turns to Matylda and envelops one of her small hands in both of his.

“I'm sorry,” he tells her, and only her, softly, but clearly.

She simply gazes back and her features are quite unreadable, and stone cold. She dismisses him with a curt nod, and he exhales raggedly, running his hands over his face.

“Well, I... and I _am_ sorry for this, but I didn't know better at the time... I... I couldn't take it, I was thinkin' about everythin' night and day, the orcs, you two, my _wife,_ the... the life I'd left behind, I... I was frightened, ye must understand. Flint showed up out of the blue in me hut one day, an' he was too happy to be bringin' any good news for me. He said there was money in it for both of us, if... if we left you... if we left you to the orcs for the takin' without any fuss. I...”

His voice fails him then, and to Bilbo's utter horror, they see his eyes are welling with tears. The silence that overcomes them is uncomfortable and heavy, as Ludo heaves his ragged breaths, and Thorin's muscles under Bilbo's touch are flexing and relaxing again, as if he's forcing himself not to jump to his feet. Tylda snaps her head to glare out of the window, jaw set almost defiantly, cheeks wet.

“Flint didn't... he didn't know who you were, y'see,” Ludo continues weakly, “I told 'im... I told 'im we'd be leavin' for Esgaroth, and I... I didn't want anythin' to do with the orcs anymore, so I just told 'im when we were going to be gone, an' he demanded, he wanted to know who you were, but I said no. I said no.”

He stops momentarily, almost as if he's expecting some sort of sympathy from the King and the hobbit. Receiving none, he carries on.

“He came to check up on ya. See if he could figure out who you were, why the orcs wanted you so much. Also to find out if everythin' was ready... ready for the...”

“The raid,” Bilbo breathes out.

“Oh, Ludo,” Tylda exclaims, her voice breaking in a muffled sob.

 

Neither of them shouts _how-could-you'_ s. Ludo apologizes over and over again, and the air grows colder and colder in the room, regardless of the hearth. Bilbo's eyes are glued to Matylda, who is so pale she looks positively sick, until Thorin stands up – not aggressively, or particularly quickly. He gets to his feet slowly, but it still manages to shut the lumberjack up effectively.

“I have heard your story,” the King says sternly, clearly, menacingly, “now give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you over it.”

“Thorin...” Bilbo squeaks, but the dwarf raises his hand in a strict gesture.

“I owe you my life,” he states, “and for that I'm giving you _a chance_ to mend this.”

“...I'll go to him,” Ludo breathes out, “to Azog. I'm assumin' he'll be somewhere along the Grey Mountains, so I'll go there. I'll clear the way for ya, to make yer way to Esgaroth.”

He looks on his wife to learn of her opinion, and in her large eyes they can all see that something has changed in the way she will gaze upon her husband from now on.

“...Thorin?” she asks the King.

“...Go,” he decides, “go, and be gone tomorrow if you know what's good for you. I don't expect you will have any luck whatsoever with Azog, but your fate is your own.”

Then he turns and marches up the stairs swiftly, and Bilbo is left standing alone. He seeks guidance with Matylda, entirely unsure of what to do next, and she grants him the saddest, weariest smile he thinks he's ever seen, and tilts her head towards the staircase. And so Bilbo runs after Thorin, managing only what he hopes was perceived as a supportive nod towards his fellow hobbit.

 

He finds Thorin pacing in his room, but when he enters it, the dwarf sinks to sit on the bed in one sweeping desperate motion, his head in his hands, and Bilbo doesn't think he has the capacity to deal with any more sudden displays of weakness tonight.

“...How did I not see this?” Thorin mutters hoarsely.

Bilbo sighs and steps closer to him, laying one hand on his shoulder cautiously.

“The same way I didn't, I suppose,” he offers, “...it was impossible to see. Really.”

The dwarf looks up at him then, his face overcome with such desperation and exhausted disappointment that Bilbo's next words lodge in his throat.

“Wherever I go,” Thorin breathes out, “he follows. I thought him dead for over a hundred years, but I should have known. ...He haunted me in my nightmares. He haunts me still.”

Bilbo's hands cup the dwarf's cheeks then, and Thorin leans into the touch with surprising urgency, his features twisting in pain.

“N-now then,” Bilbo tells him, his own voice not quite as steady as he'd like, “I know... well, next to nothing about chasing away nightmares, but... I'll be right here to – to remind you that they are just that. Bad dreams. ...Forgive me, that's horribly childish. Would you prefer me to tell you that you will surely defeat all your enemies one day, and just you wait...?”

The short flicker of a smile that curves Thorin's lips is the most gratifying thing Bilbo's seen that evening.

“No,” the King mumbles, and two strong arms pull Bilbo in, “I think I'd much prefer you to save the speeches and be childish for a while longer.”

 

And faced with all the warmth and the prospect of the soft of a bed _and_ an embrace, Bilbo can't help but smile, no matter the horrors of tomorrow.

“Now that,” he sighs, “I can do.”

-

 

They are given shelter and more food than they could ask for, and are swiftly, if a bit reluctantly, brought up to speed. Bard, the man who first greeted them in Laketown, is reasonable and quite easy to get along with, but the same cannot be said for the Master of Esgaroth himself. The man doesn't even attempt to conceal his suspicion regarding the dwarves from the very first second they're introduced, and he's not exactly thrilled about the elves either.

“Well then, the way I understand it, the King will _not_ be sending help in the foreseeable future, is that right?”

“...That remains to be seen,” Legolas counters, “I am here to... assess the situation, and possibly convince my Father of the severity of it...-”

“Oh, brilliant,” the Master scoffs, his thick fingers adorned with numerous rings tapping on the table in a rhythm that is slowly becoming unbearable to Fili's ears, “well, shall I round it up for you, then? The _severity_ of the situation? We have a live dragon threatening to scorch us where we stand. We have a town full of terrified people, running away from a danger that could come any day, we just have no way of telling. We are low on provisions _and_ defensive power, _and_ not to forget, we now have the King under the Mountain returned to us at long last. Things are looking up.”

 

Fili strains himself not to groan out loud, and instead exchanges a quick glance with Balin, who was an obvious choice to bring along to this sort of meeting. The old dwarf's lips curl in a fleeting ghost of a smile, and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly – _stay calm._ They are almost unbelievably close now – disregarding the dragon of course – and given his town's dire situation, the Master has been very generous to them after all.

“I will send a raven to Dain Ironfoot of the Iron Hills today,” Fili offers, “he has the power of a great army at his disposal, and he will not hesitate to aid us.”

“Oh, we've sent a raven to Dain Ironfoot of the Iron Hills,” the Master scowls, “his response was vague, and by no means in our favor. What makes you think you will be any luckier?”

“Respectfully,” Fili says, feeling anything but respectful, “I think the idea of the heir to Erebor's throne being alive will entice him more than enough. Trust me. We will do anything in our power to help you defend yourselves.”

“With respect to _you,_ Master dwarf, I will see more weight in those words when you have an army behind you,” the man retorts, and dismisses them shortly after.

 

“We are short on many things,” Bard tells them later, leading them through the intricate web of narrow alleys and frail-looking wooden bridges (“This town will go up in flames like a torch” Fili remembers Dwalin muttering) with utter surety, “patience being one of them. We've sent missives as far as Minas Tirith, but it seems this fight will be ours alone.”

“We are far too familiar with that feeling,” Fili offers, “I meant it when I said we would aid you in any way possible.”

“...Thank you,” Bard replies gruffly, and eyes him with a peculiar sort of interest.

 

The raven is sent, Balin helping out with the wording of the message, and upon their return to the house they've been lent (the Master made it very clear that he would be expecting all his expenses returned after the dwarves managed to reclaim Erebor), they are pleasantly surprised to see the rest of the company in a lively discussion with a familiar figure.

“Gandalf!” Fili exclaims, and the wizard, though looking somewhat worse for the wear, greets him rather enthusiastically.

“Well then,” he states, surrounded by everyone, “I hoped I might find you here. Mirkwood cost you a lot, it seems. I already heard about Thorin and Bilbo, Fili – don't give up on them yet. Master Baggins has quite a few tricks up his sleeve, and I'm sure Thorin will be of some assistance as well.”

The mood takes a turn for the solemn for a bit after that, but soon, Gandalf spurs them on by more questions.

“Why don't you tell us where you went off to, first?” Bifur offers, which meets with nothing but approval from the others.

“Oh, a terrible, nasty business in the north of Mirkwood,” the wizard waves his hand dismissively, “Nothing to concern you, don't worry. But then, perhaps you would know something about a certain forest fire? Go on, tell me everything, and I'm sure our stories will intertwine soon enough...”

They sum up their stay at the Elvenking's Halls more or less thoroughly, the wizard's brow furrowing menacingly here, arching up in amazement there. Fili has been expecting it for quite some time when Gandalf finally approaches him alone in the evening, everyone else preoccupied with much merrier thoughts now.

“You have no map, no key, and no burglar,” he says outright, lighting his pipe as they make their way onto the veranda of the house, further away from the general noise.

“Now, I would not go so far as to say you don't have a King, because it seems to me like Thorin has brewed quite the replacement in you, but tell me, and tell me honestly – how do you propose to get past a dragon?”

“...Perhaps the dragon will come to us?” Fili sighs wearily, “I don't know. The men think he'll come any day now, and from what I understand, they keep... sending troops to investigate that never return, and... panicking? Really, I'm waiting to see how this whole thing plays out.”

 

“Hmm,” Gandalf frowns, “well, without Bilbo, the plan I had in mind is quite meaningless. Some say dragons can be reasoned with, you see.”

“And you were hoping Bilbo would... chat with him?” Fili raises his eyebrow.

“Mhm, something like that, yes,” the wizard mutters, puffing on his pipe absentmindedly, and gazing over the water, then, as if he's just remembered something, “you know, I thought it was the only way to get him – the dragon – out of the mountain.”

“...And now?”

Gandalf looks down at him, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his hat, but there's a smile on his face.

“Now... I can't help but wonder if, in this case, it isn't time to stop thinking and start acting. ...A dragon can hardly be slain the old-fashioned way, with swords and shields and sheer bravery, unless you fancy yourself burning to death, but perhaps we might come up with another solution.”

Fili pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly very much in need of sleep – it's as if his body is demanding it tenfold in return for the short, restless nights he went through in Mirkwood.

“I've forgotten how enigmatic you can get, Gandalf,” he winces, and the wizard chuckles.

“I promise all will become clearer soon,” he says kindly.

“...Will you stay here? In Laketown?” Fili wants to know, the thought of the wizard disappearing quite an unpleasant one – his mere presence speaks of larger powers at play, and more important issues in the world; it's as if Gandalf is everywhere something big is happening, and his overall experience is something Fili can only dream of obtaining. He knows that Gandalf very probably has his own motives and reasons for supporting their cause, far beyond believing in it, and far beyond anything Fili will ever understand, but somehow that idea grounds him.

“Well, I was thinking about going back the way you came,” the wizard replies, “to try and find Thorin and our burglar. But I will stay, for now. At least until your Dain Ironfoot arrives. I am given to understand his army is quite the sight.”

“His is the only dwarven kingdom _left_ with a proper army, actually,” Fili says, “me and my brother used to dream of being his soldiers when we were little...-”

“And Uncle would use it against us in weapons training. ' _You think this is good enough for Dain's army?_ '.”

 

Kili approaches them slowly from the inside, exchanging a wide smile with Gandalf, but his face shifting into a far colder grimace when he meets Fili's gaze.

“Can I speak with you?” he says quietly.

“I'll leave you to it,” Gandalf says, patting Fili on his shoulder as he leaves, which is probably the very last flicker of comfort he's bound to feel tonight.

“What is it?” he mumbles.

“Did you send the raven?”

“Yes.”

“What did the Master say?”

“...He's doubtful. I think he'd much rather pack up the whole town and leave.”

“Understandable.”

“What do you want, Kili?”

 

The silence that follows is uncomfortable at best, at least for Fili – he turns away from his brother, leaning heavily on the carven railing of the veranda, glaring into the night. Anytime he's near Kili these days, he feels like he's accomplished exactly nothing at all. He tells himself over and over again that he's in the right, that if anyone is to budge and take a step back from all of it, it should not be him, but... realizing he's actually capable of functioning on his own, without Kili constantly by his side, has brought him a lot, unfortunately misery included.

“You,” Kili says then, closer than he'd anticipated, and a tingle dances up Fili's spine.

“I just want you,” he continues, and when Fili does muster the courage to look at him, his face is frightfully honest, if stern, “I just want things to be the way they were before we ever set out on this damned quest. Is that too much to ask?”

And Fili gazes at him, his cheeks red from the cold, puffs of freezing breath by his mouth, his eyes gleaming, and he's once again the Kili who would cry every time he failed to counter a strike during their weapons training, if it meant his big brother would rush to hug him, or ruffle his hair. He's the secondborn son, the one who was allowed to climb into Uncle's lap during some of the less important meetings while Fili stood by and watched; the one who got away with not always paying attention during boring classes on account of his cheeky smile, and the one who skipped them and later begged Fili to explain everything to him, bribing him with stolen apples and nuzzling his nose into the nape of his neck when he wrapped his little arms around him.

“Yes,” Fili sighs, smiling softly, feeling nothing but a dull ache, which, now that he thinks about it, has been with him as long as he can remember, “it really is.”

Kili's brows furrow in a wonderfully childish confusion.

“This isn't you,” he mutters, almost pouts, “you're in over your head, you... you've got this whole idea about becoming King and handling this on your own, but...-”

“An _idea?_ ” Fili interrupts him, “Kili, this is not some silly prank I decided to pull on you. This is my reality now – I never asked for any of it, but I've managed to get us this far, and I'm not turning back now just because you think I'm _not being myself._ No. You either grow up, accept what we've been through, move on, and _help me,_ or I... I'll have very little time for you.”

“Don't say that,” Kili breathes out, his voice dangerously unsteady, dull, “don't.”

“But I am,” Fili counters.

They're standing but inches apart, and the urge to reach for Kili and bring him close is overwhelming, but he needs to see him, watch his face contort under the influence of his words, so that he knows they have an influence at all.

“I am saying it,” he continues, and Kili grits his teeth, clenches his jaw, looking away, “I need you by my side, brave, and clever, and bright. I need you to understand that I'm not doing this out of some twisted sense of... of false bravado, but because I _must._ I wish... I wish things could go back to the way they once were, you have _no_ idea, but we must both accept, _you_ must accept, that that's simply not happening. That's what I need you to do... or I don't need you.”

“...No,” Kili shakes his head like a child, the grin that flickers over his face sharp and entirely joyless, “I don't want to hear this. ...You need me either way.”

“Kili, listen...” Fili groans, his hands shooting up at last to cup his brother's cheeks to make him hear what he has to say.

 

The surge is unexpected, and almost knocks him off his feet, the railing jamming into his back painfully as Kili presses his palm flat against his chest, using his weight to break his balance, his lips clashing with Fili's. And oh, it's been so long, so very, very long, which is why Fili's knees turn into mush at the warmth, his hands frantically grasping to get a hold on something, anything. There is absolutely nothing gentle about the kiss, Kili forcing his way in, pressing Fili back and down with the weight of his whole body, one of his hands sliding into his hair and tugging until Fili's vocal cords betray him, and a muffled moan escapes him.

He wants it, and more of it, and _always,_ so much it's nauseating, but he manages to break it apart, getting a firm grip on Kili's temple and pulling him away.

“You need me. Either. Way,” his brother hisses, and Fili almost loses himself then, but in the end, he succeeds at restraining himself, hanging his head, his hand sliding from Kili's hair down his neck, to his shoulder, where it rests, considerably more gently.

“We're not twenty anymore, Kili,” he says curtly.

“No. It was much more fun then.”

“ _Listen_ to me,” Fili snarls then, severing any and all physical contact left between them, taking a step back, the night's freezing air surging in, making his heart toll like a bell and his cheeks burn, “ _really_ listen. _Grow up._ I will not always be there, yours for the taking. You will not always have things your way, because the world won't let you.”

Kili simply glares at him, breathing heavily, shoulders heaving, eyes narrowed almost ferociously.

“The world won't let me,” he says, “or you won't let me?”

 

“ _Kili!_ ” Fili's voice breaks as he takes a quick step forward, grabbing both his brother's shoulders in a literal attempt to shake some sense into him, “you are my brother, and I _love you._ I will _always_ love you. But for _Mahal's sake,_ I _cannot_ deal with you like this! You've been nothing but a hindrance these past days... weeks! I have _so much_ to bother with, and none of it is making any sense, and I was actually hoping _you_ would be the one matter that I'd manage to resolve eventually, but here you are! _Look at you!_ I can't do this, not now! Not ever! Not like this!”

Fueled by a rage that is more desperate than anything else, Fili marches past his brother and stomps up the stairs of the now quietened house, grateful for its many corridors and rooms, which allow him to reach his bedroom without meeting anyone. By the time he slams the door shut and rests his back against it, tears have begun trickling down his cheeks, and he wipes at them with the back of his hand, groaning loudly, angrily.

Sleep only ever comes after he's managed to stop thinking about the fact that he, too, managed to make his little brother cry for the first time in what might be decades.

-

 

Harrow Mill is sinisterly quiet the next morning. Bilbo wakes up blissfully ignorant of the previous night's affairs for a few fleeting moments, his limbs tangled with Thorin's, one heavy arm over his chest preventing him from moving much – not that he minds. He manages to roll over to his side, interlocking his fingers with Thorin's, but that is when reality kicks in at last, and he recalls what they went through last night, and groans, burying his face in his pillow. The King comes to as well, with a deep sigh, instinctively pulling Bilbo close before he's even opened his eyes properly, the hobbit suspects – he wishes that that were all there was to the morning, just them waking up together, staying in bed until lunch, never having to worry about anything more complicated than all the ways they could possibly keep each other warm.

But alas, such small comforts are too much to ask, will probably always be too much to ask, with the two of them, Bilbo has learnt. 

“Thorin,” he mumbles.

“Mmhm.”

The dwarf lifts his arm a bit so that Bilbo can turn over, and his face is still devoid of any unnecessary wrinkles and tension when the hobbit lays his eyes on it, and so, desperately wanting to keep it that way for a while longer, he cups Thorin's cheek and kisses him, ever so lightly.

“Did you sleep alright?” the King asks him then, gently, his fingers traveling into his hair.

“...Me? Yes, I slept alright, but what about you?” Bilbo fusses, and Thorin frowns momentarily.

“Don't worry about me,” he mutters, “I'm simply... I'm sorry you had to go through all that.”

And he moves to bring him closer, but Bilbo resists, wriggling in his arms until he has the upper hand, his weight resting on Thorin's chest.

“Now, there is one thing you need to understand if we're to... to continue... this,” he says, starting out firmly, finishing a bit flushed.

“...And what is that?” the dwarf raises his eyebrow, already making an amiable attempt at distracting Bilbo, his hands traveling from his back over his hips, and lower – but he's interrupted when the hobbit scowls and flings his leg over him so that he sits in his lap astride, maintaining quite a stern face.

“I will always worry about you,” Bilbo states, “there is nothing you can do about that.”

 

Thorin face twists into an unexpectedly vulnerable grimace at that, and he gazes at Bilbo, long and scrutinizing, until the hobbit becomes restless, worried that he'd said something wrong, or even irritated him.

“N-not that you need looking after, mind you,” he blubbers, “I just meant...-”

Fortunately, the King silences him quite effectively with a kiss.

“I know what you meant,” he breathes out, “the worrying will be mutual, best be prepared.”

Bilbo's eyebrows arch up high.

“As long as it doesn't come with a side of telling me what to do,” he notes, and Thorin rewards that with his best mock-offended face.

“I wouldn't dare.”

“Oh, you wouldn't, would you?”

“I'll have you know I'm thinking of setting up a daily limit for that mocking I've been allowing you.”

“Oh my, is that a sense of humor I'm hearing?”

They spend the next minutes joyfully making each other think thoughts miles away from the distress and desperation they went to bed with last night, but a certain sense of responsibility catches up with both of them eventually.

“We should go down,” Thorin mumbles into Bilbo's hair.

“I know. ...I don't want to.”

But they get dressed nevertheless, Bilbo catching the dwarf in one last kiss before they leave the room, perfectly certain that after they've done it, all the drowsy comfort of the morning will be lost for good. They descend the stairs hand in hand, which is very unlikely for both of them, Bilbo knows, but also very needed.

They find Matylda in the kitchen, almost invisible behind the pile of various jars and cans and boxes and bags of food she keeps carrying out of the pantry, stocking on the table, and carrying back in with a wordless determination. Thorin and Bilbo exchange a fleeting look, and the hobbit decides to brave the unknown.

“...Morning,” he says sheepishly.

 

“Oh, good morning,” Tylda replies, her tone so neutral Bilbo doesn't know if he should be relieved or worried.

She resumes her work, and the hobbit and the dwarf simply stand there, quite incapable of figuring out what to do.

“Do you... need some help?” Bilbo tries.

“Oh, no, that's quite alright. Don't mind me, have some breakfast.”

Thorin and Bilbo exchange a look, the King raising an eyebrow, and the hobbit sighing and shrugging. They help themselves to bread with honey, and eat quietly, almost timidly, while Matylda scurries about the kitchen.

“...Ludo left early in the morning,” she blurts out out of the blue, and they freeze, “he's going to Esgaroth and further north, after... after Azog. He said you should wait a few days before you set out, and that he'd... attempt to send a message from Laketown, if he... managed to get there alright...”

Her voice betrays her, and they see tears trickling down her face.

“Matylda...” Bilbo jumps to his feet, but she waves him off, sniffing and drying her cheeks with her apron.

“I'm sorry. I'm alright. Oh, silly me... Please, don't worry.”

And she all but runs out of the kitchen, leaving them behind completely helpless. Bilbo battles with the idea of going after her, because surely wherever she is she must be crying her eyes out, but then they hear noises from the backyard, and the chickens demanding food, and her voice is firm yet again as she scolds them. Bilbo brushes his hands over his face with an exasperated groan, and then notices Thorin looking particularly grim, so he covers one of his hands on the table with both of his own, and attempts an uplifting smile. Fortunately, the King reciprocates it.

“...What are we going to do?” the hobbit sighs.

“...We'll wait. I don't think we have much choice,” Thorin states, “Mahal knows I'd like to go right now, but that might mean running into pointless danger. Besides... It would be appropriate of us to watch after Matylda, at least for a while.”

Bilbo is surprised to see him show this particular sort of care, but it isn't by any means an unpleasant surprise.

“I do believe you're right,” he sighs, “she is as headstrong and resilient as any hobbit, but I can't imagine anyone would remain unaffected by... all this.”

 

They see very little of her that day, and many days after that – she does ask them to finish preparing the household for the winter, but spends most of her time in the attic, or her room, or anywhere the two of them aren't, really. Any attempt at sparking a conversation usually ends before it even started, but Bilbo takes on the uneasy task of trying again, and again. He keeps on failing, and falls asleep, Thorin's arms around him like an anchor, listening to the wind howl, and the rafters creak, the winter somehow not the coldest of the horrors of Harrow Mill.

He knows Thorin in turn makes attempts at supporting him, and he tries to tell him that his mere presence is enough, tries to press it into his lips and hair and every wrinkle along with the kisses, because it's true – the fact that he wakes up to the King's face, and is allowed to seek small comforts in his touch almost whenever he pleases, and somehow possesses the ability to return a healthy color to his cheeks and bring sounds of pleasure so honest that he still shivers at the thought of them out of him, is enough for him to forget any fright and worry.

 

A message comes one day, and it isn't from Ludo, and they find Matylda sitting in front of the fireplace, turning the frayed piece of paper over in her fingers, and when she looks up at them, the glint of the hearth's glow in her eyes hides a somber determination.

“This is from... a friend,” she says almost apologetically, “I arranged for him to look after the mill for the winter. I will... I'll leave.”

“...Leave?” Bilbo breathes out, “leave where?”

“Minas Tirith, at first. From there... who knows?”

“But the winter's barely even started! We can't let you go now,” Bilbo protests, and she simply smiles.

“I could never manage this house alone, Bilbo. Besides... I don't want to. There is nothing left for me here.”

When they gape at her, at a loss for words, she smiles some more, kindly.

“I'll be fine, really. I'll take the horse, and plenty of food. There's a number of villages with warm places to sleep on the way. I'll reach the city in no time, you'll see. I'd much rather spend the winter there, than... than here, trust me.”

“W-well then... Will you ever return here?” Bilbo wants to know, almost ashamed to ask, and her face twists contorts in sadness for a fleeting moment, but she shrugs and smiles almost cheerfully then.

“Who knows,” she states, “perhaps in the summer, to see how the herb garden is doing? ...Who knows. I just know that right now, I cannot bear being under this roof for much longer. ...Surely you understand.”

It is the most they've heard out of her in days, and at least Bilbo's face must betray his surprise and desperation, because she chuckles, and all but orders: “Now, don't look at me like that – I think we all know it's for the best. I have one more thing to ask of you, though – would you stay here and wait for my friend to come claim the house? His name is Bark, an elderly man, I used to wait tables in his inn years ago, I think you'll find him quite agreeable...”

 

They don't ask her why she won't follow after Ludo. They don't ask her anything much, simply agree to stay, and help her wherever they can – Bilbo bakes buns by his grandmother's recipe that should last for weeks, and rations the food from the pantry. Thorin fixes up the carriage and the horse's harness, to make sure it'll all last the journey, the sight of him with a hammer, rekindling the fire in Ludo's small forge in the barn and repairing buckles and nails and reshaping old horseshoes quite appealing – a gleam unlike anything Bilbo's ever seen reclaims his eyes, and his hair smells of smoke when he lets the hobbit rest in his arms and run his fingertips over the newly formed callouses on his palms.

The storms cease as if in accordance with Matylda's wants, the combination of the cloudless azure of the sky, and the sun all but setting the crisp white of the snow-covered fields ablaze almost blinding. It is on one such becoming morning that Tylda decides to bid them farewell at last. She wears a thick fur coat, and large boots, and a shawl wrapped in layers up to her nose red from the cold, and when she pulls her knitted gloves and hat on, she looks so ridiculous that the weight of the moment is forgotten for a split second, and she laughs as she embraces Bilbo, who barely manages to put his arms around her. 

“Well then,” she says brightly as she shakes Thorin's hand and squeezes his shoulder where she can reach, “thank you both, for everything.”

“We should be the ones thanking you,” the King notes as he helps her climb onto the coach-box and hands her the reins.

“A thousand times over,” Bilbo agrees, “I do believe it's wishing for too much, but for all it's worth, I'd like to see your face again some day. Please be safe.”

She smiles widely and brightly, cheeks red already, her figure laughably small compared to the horse, snorting and stomping impatiently as Thorin adjusts its harness and quilt for the last time, and the carriage, laden with so many boxes and bags and suitcases it's almost overflowing.

“In what world do you think I would let you get away with hoarding all those brilliant recipes for yourself, Bilbo Baggins?” she chuckles, “until the next time. For now... look after yourselves. Look after _each other._ And best of luck – I'll look north to see the fires of a kingdom reclaimed.”

 

A warm smile spreads over Thorin's face at that, Bilbo sees, and he raises his hand in a parting gesture – he lets the hobbit tangle their cold fingers together, and they stand side by side as the carriage turns and slowly makes its way up the road, its creaking and clinking and the snow crushing and cracking under its wheels and the horse's hooves a strangely cheerful symphony in the otherwise utterly quiet landscape.

“Goodbye!” Matylda raises her hand high, turning back to look at them, and her home, over her shoulder one last time, “goodbye, my friends!”

“Goodbye! Farewell!” they call after her, and one arm sneaks around Bilbo's shoulders, and he in turn wraps one around Thorin's waist where he can reach, and they stand like that until Matylda's carriage is nothing but a dark dot on the bright white horizon.

A tender sadness overcoming him for a moment, Bilbo lets Thorin hold him closer, mumbling into the soft of his warm woolen overcoat: “...What now?”

To his surprise, the dwarf's chest rumbles in gentle laughter, and when he looks up at him, he is met with an utterly unforeseen kindness, with an undercurrent of what he can only call giddiness, curving the King's lips in a smile.

“You know,” Thorin says, grabbing Bilbo's hand and tugging him gently towards the house, “I have some ideas.”

-

 

Dain Ironfoot arrives with all the glory Fili remembers from childhood – the echo of his soldiers marching carries over the treetops long before they can even see them, and they flood the fields above Laketown like a blotch of black ink spreading on paper. Soon, they can see a greeting party separate and make their way downhill, and Fili leads the company to meet them beyond the city's gates, as per the Master's request.

Dain's intricate armor, and the numerous beads in his beard, and the heavy battleaxe attached to his belt all shine in the setting sun, clean and bright, the metalwork unlike anything Fili has seen in a long while, his henchmen similarly impressive, and Fili feels a slight pang of regret at his kinsmen's shabby clothes and overall poor appearance.

Dain approaches them alone, Fili and Balin standing side by side, and they exchange the statutory greeting in Khuzdul, but then the warlord all but holds Fili at arms length.

“Well, boy, you look horrible,” he rumbles, and Fili could swear he _feels_ Balin roll his eyes, “but at least you're alive. Where's your brother? Oh, there you are! For Mahal's sake, you have not aged a day! Where is your beard?!”

Kili is half pulled, half pushed to stand at Fili' side, reluctance oozing from his every pore, but he stands still nevertheless as Dain scrutinizes both of them, his brows furrowed. At last, he crosses his arms over his chest, and sighs: “Now then, we need to speak about this mess, and unless we want to cause that city any further distress, we're going to do so in my camp. Come.”

They decide wordlessly, and only Balin, Dwalin and Fili follow Dain in the end. The march is rather lengthy, and Fili has plenty of time to ponder on what he's going to say, how he's going to convince Dain to help them. Of course, the first thing they'll have to do is explain what happened to Thorin...

 

“I told him,” Dain groans, all of them sitting around a makeshift table in his tent, the sounds of the rest of the camp being erected almost deafening, “I told him, back at the very first meeting in Ered Luin, that he could not in his right mind expect to achieve this on his own.”

“...Yes, that's why he asked _you_ for help,” Dwalin, who, if Fili remembers correctly, has a deep-seated dislike for the Ironfoots, all but growls, and Balin and Dain sigh in unison.

“I did not help him because I thought he would let it go eventually,” the warlord admits, “I underestimated his stubbornness, that much I admit. But now he's gone, from what I understand, and you're attempting to finish this... this quest why exactly? To prove yourselves? In _his name?_ It was suicide before, and it is suicide still. You cannot take on a dragon, none of us can.”

“Then why did you lead your army here, if you think it all so hopeless?” Fili says, and Dain turns to look at him, his scowl that of curious interest rather than the disdain Fili had expected.

“...There is much more at play here than Thorin's lost kingdom, boy,” he states, “there are missives every day of dangers brewing north. You do realize that by coming here, I am coming to greet that, don't you? I will not sit idly by while a war is on the horizon. If I can find out what's happening _and_ keep the darkness as far from my doorstep as possible, you bet all the forges of Erebor that I will do so.”

“The Elvenking spoke of dangers up north, as well,” Balin notes, “but I can't quite imagine a war is upon us.”

“We should all hope you are right, Master Balin,” Dain sighs, “but now... what is your plan?”

 

He does react better than Fili had anticipated when he learns they don't actually have one. He shares their general doubt regarding the humans' help, but agrees that they need to stand side by side nevertheless.

“I'll speak to that Master of theirs, then,” he sighs, “see what I can learn from him. So far, it seems to me like they're getting their beards in a twist over the dragon and don't quite acknowledge the other problems. ...The same could be said for you.”

“Also,” Fili says quickly, to quell Dwalin's rising protests, “it might be wise to speak to Bard. He's a... well, he's somewhat of a right-hand man to the Master, but he's also of the line of Girion.”

“The heir to Dale,” Dain hums.

“Yes. And from what I understand, he's the one with the control over the city's offensive forces, at least for now.”

“He's also much more pleasant to talk to than the Master,” Balin adds, “and he wanted to speak to you as soon as possible either way, I think.”

“...Alright,” Dain states, slapping his hands on the table, “I'll try to have him summoned, then. Are you sure you don't want accommodation here?”

“Oh, we're sure,” Dwalin utters under his breath, but Balin speaks quickly, and loud and clear to cover that up: “We're sure. We are grateful for the offer, though. We'll speak soon.”

And they're about to up and leave, but Dain says: “Fili, lad, do you think I could speak to you?”

Fili freezes, doing his best to disregard the lurch his stomach makes, and exchanges a quick glance with Balin, who shrugs almost imperceptibly.

“...Of course,” he nods at Dain curtly, and if he feels a lingering uneasiness as he watches Balin and Dwalin leave, he makes sure not to let it show. 

“Tell me truthfully now,” Dain speaks, and when he turns to look at him, the shadows of the tent prolonging as nights falls outside pronounce his features, and his age truly shows in his face just then – he is somewhat older than Thorin, but younger than Balin, and just thinking about that span of years makes Fili feel feeble. All of them have been at this almost two of his lifetimes longer than him, and the childish doubt that flashes like a warning sign in his mind is enough to weaken him.

“Do you think Thorin is gone for good?”

Fili gazes at Dain long, and if there is any genuine concern hidden beyond that menacing brow, it is hidden well.

 

“...We found no body,” he replies simply, calmly, “our hope costs us nothing, but we do not let it hold us back. If we manage to retake Erebor, there will be a... a ceremony, at least, but... I cannot say. I really cannot say. I like to think the elves would have told us if they found the bodies, but...-”

“Bodies? There were more of you?”

“...Oh, yes, we had a hobbit with us, Master Baggins – he was to be our burglar, recommended by the wizard Gandalf.”

Dain snorts.

“The more I'm hearing of this quest, the more ridiculous it sounds. It is a wonder you got this far!”

When Fili remains quiet, the warlord sighs, and his eyes grow kinder.

“Thorin always was the one for braving the impossible, even when he was as young as you,” he offers, “but Mahal knows I did not expect him to go like this. ...Or at all. Stubborn as a bull, he was.”

“It's not impossible,” Fili states, ignoring the sharp pang of grief rising in his throat.

“...What isn't?” Dain inquires, far too gently and indulgently for Fili's liking.

“This quest,” he says, “trust me, there were times when I thought it would be better to just give up and suffocate in Mirkwood, but we got this far, and we're not backing down now. ...I will see Erebor restored.”

“Really?” Dain all but scoffs, then, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing, face a grimace of fatherly concern Fili believes he deserves to be spared of, “you're not your Uncle, lad. And I will not see you turn into him at such a young age. ...Or do you think you have what it takes to be King? Say by some miracle you manage to reclaim the Lonely Mountain – what then? Do you have any idea what it takes to rule a kingdom? More than bravado and boyish charm, that's for sure.”

Fili could let his anger show then, and stomp out of the tent and never come back, but not before he'd yell at Dain, because he knows nothing, _nothing._ Instead, he sighs, lips quirking in a small smile.

“Perhaps you're right,” he says almost meekly, “but I suppose we'll just have to wait and see. I appreciate your advice and help.”

“Speaking of which,” Dain notes, glaring at Fili a bit suspiciously, “if we do succeed here, and Erebor stands reclaimed, I expect to be remunerated accordingly.”

“...Understandable.” If a bit greedy. “A portion of the kingdom's riches will belong to you.”

Dain shakes his head.

“I'm not interested in gold and jewels. Well, not directly. Not in this case.”

“...What do you want, then?”

“The kingdom, obviously.”

 

When Fili doesn't find it within himself to answer at first, the warlord smiles, almost pityingly.

“Oh, don't look at me like that,” he says jovially, “did you think I would bring the strength of my army here just to have a look at what's going on in the good old west? This is why, dear boy, you don't have it within you to be King quite yet. You're too naive.” 

“...I feel the need to remind you that I still am the first in the line of succession, followed closely by my brother.”

“Hmm, yes,” Dain muses, “we'll see what everyone has to say about _the line of succession_ when a war is upon us. Chaos makes Kings of those who are steady on their feet, Fili. I'll be honored to stand by your side in a battlefield and figure out which one of us keeps his balance longer.”

“Threats are lost on me,” Fili retorts, not even attempting to make it sound like anything less than a growl.

“Oh, but I'm not threatening you,” Dain states sweetly, “I'm simply offering advice. I hope you're smart enough to distinguish the difference.”

Fortunately, their increasingly more disturbing talk is interrupted by one of Dain's lieutenants announcing the arrival of Bard. Fili spends their discussion contributing only very little, and mostly simply scrutinizing the other dwarf's face. He did not anticipate Dain to be so direct, or so... unashamed in his wants. He suspects Thorin would have a word or two to say about all of it, mostly about betrayal, and mostly shouted – as for his part, Fili will do his best so that the kingdom goes to the right hands in the end, _if_ they manage to reclaim it. Those might not necessarily be his hands, he admits to himself, but he also can't quite see Erebor in Dain's.

 

Bard remains admirably vague in his negotiations with Dain, until the warlord releases him, having learnt or dealt for very little altogether. The arrangement stands that the full force of the dwarven army will assist Esgaroth should it be required, and there is even talk of provisions for the fleeing people. But so far, the whole situation simply feels like one large waiting game – nobody really knows what the dragon is up to, and nobody wants to spend too much energy and men on finding out.

Dain does speak of the possible dangers brewing north, but Bard all but brushes it off, his ' _We'll cross that bridge when we get to it_ ' dryly straightforward, but he does ask further questions when he and Fili march back down to Laketown, at a brisk pace since night has almost fallen and the air is growing colder by the minute.

“From what little I saw, the elves seemed... unusually restless, so to speak,” Fili offers honestly, ironically feeling much more at ease with the man than his fellow dwarf, “mind you, I imagine it would have to be quite something to make the Elvenking rise and leave his forest. But I don't think he knows much more than we do.”

Bard marches steadily, his grim face overshadowed by gloom.

“...The Master wants to order every man, woman and child to flee the city,” he says out of nowhere, “that means its defenders as well. He means to make for the Iron Hills. In the middle of the winter!”

“But... Dain Ironfoot is _here_ ,” Fili groans in disbelief, his exhaustion perhaps clouding his mind from the obvious, but he can't grasp the Master's plan at all.

“Yes, and he wants to speak to him about it. That's a thousand people traveling in the cold!” Bard exclaims, “we have a better chance of survival fighting the dragon with our bare hands!”

“...Why didn't you tell this to Dain, then?”

“Oh, for some reason, he didn't strike me as the trustworthy type,” the man replies, and flashes Fili a curt smile, “but I am willing to bargain with you.”

Fili is very, very cold, and hungry, and tired, but he suppresses the deep, ragged sigh that threatens to escape him.

“About?”

“When it comes down to it, my men will much rather follow my orders, than those of the Master's. And if I order them to stay in the city, in their homes, asking them to _protect_ those homes, I'm certain Esgaroth will have its defense in full power. ...I will help you get rid of that wretched dragon by any means necessary _if_ you assist me in rebuilding Dale when your kingdom is reclaimed.”

“You know,” Fili chuckles wearily, “we might all be burned to a crisp, thus burying that plan of yours at its very first step.”

“Or we might not,” Bard replies surprisingly steadfastly, “you and I have very little to lose, and much to gain, Master dwarf. What do you say? I will help you reclaim your homeland, you will help me reclaim mine.”

 

Beyond the swirling of doubt, and worry, and yes, some anger in his mind, Fili is beyond grateful for what seems to him like the first voice of reason he's hearing ever since they came to Laketown. He slows down, and extends his hand to the man.

“We are doing a lot of assuming and have very little in the way of guarantees,” he states, “but if we do manage to achieve all this _and_ all of us survive, your city will be rebuilt with as much care as ours. You have yourself a deal.”

Bard smiles a genuine smile as he shakes his hand, and then says, almost cheerfully: “Well then... I believe all we need is a dragon where we can see him.”

-

 

Bilbo would laugh, if he weren't so utterly nervous, to the point of restlessness. Thorin makes an incredible effort at gaining his attention, with only one goal in mind, obviously – the hobbit flushes even thinking about it. It's not that he doesn't want to, it's just that... he finds himself almost timid in the face of Thorin's advances (even though they are very neatly concealed and not at all rough or unwanted), all but shying away from his touch, anytime those even begin to extend past the embraces and the kisses. He tells himself it's silly – the house is empty after all, and there really is nothing to be worried about...

But that one night was fueled with so much bottled-up desire, and anger, and all in all, emotions that threatened to scorch them if they didn't express them properly, but now, Bilbo realizes he's thinking too much, and acting too little. And again, it's not that he doesn't want to – oh, that is not where the problem lies at all. His body reminds him of how much he wants to frequently, and soon he's stuck in a quite infuriating state of yearning coupled with worrying about offending Thorin.

The King himself seems to be handling the situation much more gracefully – he never pushes past Bilbo's limit, always gives him all the space he needs, despite the desire Bilbo is sure he feels as well. The poor hobbit simply does not know how to work around it all, how to make it so that their kisses growing hungrier, their touches more demanding, don't make him yelp and blush and blubber like a child.

In hindsight, deciding to simply let the fates play out on their own, and forcing his mind to stop swirling around the subject for just one afternoon, proves to be the best strategy.

 

“ _How_ are we out of firewood already?”

“Well, you're the one who wanted to bake, _and_ warm up the bathwater, _and_ keep the hearth going, all at the same time!”

“Well, excuse me, but you didn't seem to object to either of it! Last night you said there was enough wood to last us for days.”

“Obviously I didn't account for your excesses! ...I'll go chop some more.”

“Don't be ridiculous! Not in that you won't.”

Their bickering is supported by gusts of wind howling outside, and the windows all but rattling in their frames – a storm is coming.

“I'll be but a minute,” Thorin announces, rising from his armchair.

“...I'll go with you,” Bilbo sighs.

“No, you stay here, finish up. I'll be right back.”

And with that, he drapes his coat over his shoulders and marches out before the hobbit can even start protesting. He _hmph_ 's and retreats to the kitchen, where he scuttles about until Thorin wanders in, hair and shoulders blanketed with snow, grabs the large wicker basket from under the window and walks away again, wordlessly. Bilbo all but groans, throws his dishcloth away and follows him.

The weather almost knocks him off his feet, but he pays no mind to it and simply helps Thorin fill the basket with neatly chopped logs and carry it inside, though their different height and power make for some tripping and more bickering along the way.

Ignoring his damp clothes, he hurries to the kitchen to take the mince pie out of the oven, and when he returns to the living room, he is greeted by the sight of Thorin shedding all his soaked layers but for his undershirt, even his boots, and feeding the fire, on his knees on the large fur in front of the hearth. Still, there's a large wet spot on the cloth on his back, and Bilbo sighs softly and grabs a heavy blanket off one of the chairs.

“Are you quite done?” he says, and the King turns to look at him, no doubt with a harsh response at the ready, but is met with a gentle smile, “I think you need to slip out of that shirt as well.”

 

Thorin's eyes narrow, but then he exhales, and smiles as well.

“You don't look any better yourself,” he notes, and Bilbo chuckles.

“Well then,” he says, losing his overcoat and the sweater underneath it, the King's eyes glued to him all of a sudden, “feed that fire properly.”

He sits down and watches as Thorin works, and warmth rises and fills the room quite quickly.

“The shirt,” Bilbo reminds him when he's done, the fire humming steadily, and the dwarf laughs, but proceeds to pull the damp piece of clothing off over his head. If the sight of his bare chest steals Bilbo's breath away a little bit, he doesn't let it show, simply gets closer and wraps the blanket around his shoulders, having to all but climb into his lap for that. Thorin's gaze is steady, the faintest hint of a smirk curving his lips.

“Your turn,” he notes, and Bilbo's confused frown disappears at the first brush of the King's fingers over his chest, untying the string of his own shirt.

His gaze flickers away bashfully, but he knows Thorin never stops watching him as he undoes the shirt as far as it'll go. His hands move to cup Bilbo's cheeks then, and he brings him in for the lightest, softest kiss. A tingle dancing up his spine, Bilbo moves closer, off his knees and into Thorin's lap, flinging his arms around the his neck. The King surprises him by resting his hands on the small of his back and _pulling_ him closer in one swift move, the floor creaking, a gasp escaping the hobbit's lips.

The dwarf's hands are warm and gentle when they find their way under Bilbo's shirt, pulling it up and, finally, over his head. Bilbo shivers then, but it is not caused by any cold – the look in Thorin's eyes is infinitely tender, but also quite unmistakably that of desire.

“Do you...?” he begins, but Bilbo gives him quite a definitive reply, kissing him deeply, hands splaying out on the hot, and still surprisingly soft skin of his back. 

The King's stomach muscles flex, and they sink onto the floor, never parting, their kisses slow, almost languid. Thorin's hands travel over Bilbo's back with ease, the sensation they leave behind burning stronger than any fire could ever manage, and a pleasant weight settles in the hobbit's gut, never to leave. In turn, he tangles his fingers in Thorin's locks and kisses him deeper still, valiantly demanding. He snorts in shock when the dwarf gets a firm grip on his buttocks, but as soon as their hips grind for the first time, all else is forgotten, and he moans softly into the kiss.

That particular plan he could certainly get behind, and so he finds better balance and rocks his hips once more, testing – it is rewarded with a low hum seemingly reverberating in both their chests. He opts for an excruciatingly slow pace, reveling in the sensation of the fabric of Thorin's breeches and the hairs on his belly brushing against his own skin as he moves. The King's breathing turns somewhat shaky, and he parts the kiss and looks on Bilbo, both his lips and cheeks rosy, eyes heavy-lidded and glazed over with longing – the hobbit's heart skips a beat at the sight, but then Thorin reminds him of the more pressing matters at hand, grabbing Bilbo's hips and grinding them on his own, the sheer power and want in that bringing an honest groan out of him. He flings himself back into the dwarf's arms and picks up tempo, and their kisses grow hungry and sloppy. Thorin's hands find their way under Bilbo's breeches, and the hobbit _ahh'_ s.

 

“...Alright?” the King demands breathlessly, and Bilbo doesn't reply, simply seizes him in another wet, open-mouthed kiss, their hands working simultaneously at getting rid of the last piece of his clothing left.

He does shy away a little when he sits before Thorin's eyes utterly naked, but the King gives him only a short time to be nervous – he sits up, steadying Bilbo in his lap, then lays him on his back, all in one sweeping move. The hobbit chuckles, startled, but it quickly turns into a half-choked moan, Thorin's lips on his again. The King doesn't linger long, moving to press kisses on Bilbo's neck and collarbone, wringing a shaky groan out of him, his fists curling in his hair, falling into both their faces now.

...And Thorin moves lower still, the trail of butterfly-light pecks leading in a very obvious direction, and it is when he sucks on the softest skin of Bilbo's belly, that the hobbit hisses, his hips jerking quite on their own accord.

“Easy...” the King mumbles, and their eyes meet for a fleeting second, and he's smiling, and Bilbo's so undone by that that he forgets all else.

Thorin kisses his hipbones, his underbelly, covered by so very few hairs compared to him, even his thighs, one hand on the side of his leg, grasping gently, the other intertwined with Bilbo's own, avoiding his cock for the longest time, even though it is very obviously demanding attention.

“Thorin... Please, I...”

The kisses stop and the King blinks up at him almost curiously.

“Yes?” he teases, “what can I do for you?”

“...Really?” Bilbo retorts breathlessly, “is now really the time for- _oh!_ ”

Thorin takes him in his mouth then, brushes his lips ever so softly along the length, and the sensation is very definitely almost too much to handle. Bilbo's hips buck up, his back sliding on the soft fur beneath him – Thorin steadies him, both his hands on his hips, but it almost proves in vain in the next second, because he flicks his tongue out and Bilbo whimpers, wriggling in a desperate search for friction.

“Easy now,” the King repeats tenderly, his thumbs drawing circles over Bilbo's hipbones – but that, coupled with him closing his mouth around the head of his cock, and his eyes blinking up, really is quite... quite overwhelming, and Bilbo whines, grabbing fistfuls of the fur.

Even though his brain is swimming in a blurry haze of pleasure, he can't help but wonder where Thorin got so brilliant at this – or perhaps the fact that it's been far too long for Bilbo has something to do with his excitement. The dwarf works him slowly, gently, his tongue searing hot, and though he'd like to commend his efforts with actual words, Bilbo finds himself incapable of producing anything more than helpless panting. His breath hitching in his throat, he merely flings his head back, arching his neck, when Thorin's hand instead of his lips envelops his cock, and he spreads his legs obediently when gently pushed to. The King draws his tongue from Bilbo's knee all the way up along his inner thigh, and the hobbit yelps when one hand orders his buttocks higher, and all but cries out when Thorin flicks the tip of his tongue over the tight muscle of his hole.

Being a hobbit and all, a practical worry for hygiene flashes in his mind, but is quickly drowned out by the immense sensation of being kissed and licked in the most likely place possible. One of Thorin's hands remains on Bilbo's cock, working almost lazily, and the pressure of it is astonishing, but Bilbo years for more, _more_ , he breathes out, and all movements cease. He blinks the daze away, confused, and his lower body almost aches when Thorin moves up, effectively pinning him in place with his weight, the look in his eyes rather too intense for the poor disheveled hobbit to handle.

 

“Do you want this?” the King demands, then, somewhat uncertainly, “...have you ever...?”

“Yes,” Bilbo gasps, “yes, yes, I have ever. Just... well, take care not to, ah... break me in half.”

Thorin clenches his jaw, something almost feral flashing in his eyes, and he exhales sharply through his nose.

“I'll be right back,” he announces, and without any further ado, he lifts himself off the ground and hurries away.

“Wh – wait! Where are you going?” Bilbo squeaks, feeling incredibly vulnerable, his skin set ablaze with the lack of another body brushing against it.

Thorin reappears in his line of sight, holding a small corked bottle.

“How did you get your hands on that?” Bilbo demands breathlessly, sitting up, not without hardship.

“Found it in the house, actually,” the King supplies carelessly, and makes to sink to his knees, but Bilbo stops him, paying his attention to the bulge on the front of his trousers. 

Shamelessly, he goes about untying the fly, his fingers lingering, playing gently with the trail of black curls, registering every tiny clench and ripple of the stomach muscles. Thorin sighs when Bilbo pulls his trousers down – the hobbit's first instinct is to look away, but he gathers determination and presses a shy kiss to the dwarf's thigh, rising on his knees, his hands resting somewhat shyly on Thorin's hips. He does not quite know what to expect when he first puts his lips to the soft skin of the King's cock, but he quickly falls in love with the warmth and the ever-present tension, braving using his tongue. Thorin rewards that with a ragged groan, but before long, one hand cups Bilbo's cheek, forcing him to look up.

“Next time,” the King states, kneeling, “tonight is yours.”

Bilbo wants to reply, he really does, but words get lodged in his throat, and he merely propels himself forward, kissing Thorin for all he's worth. The dwarf tugs and presses gently until Bilbo finds himself on his back again. He watches in mute wonder as Thorin wets his finger in the oil he brought, and obeys happily when he's asked to spread his legs again. Thorin's index finger circles his hole tenderly, smearing the oil, and when he presses in, Bilbo clenches against quite involuntarily. 

“If anything causes you pain...” Thorin breathes out, laying his hand on the small of his belly, and Bilbo merely nods, mouth hanging open.

 

The pressure is wonderfully overwhelming when Thorin does find his way in, and he begins moving his finger slowly, gently, lowering his head and pressing kisses on Bilbo's legs, sucking on his belly, licking the length of his cock, tongue flat out and soft, and the hobbit sees stars. He fails epically to keep still, pushing himself on Thorin's finger, his moaning undignified and uninhibited, his gut twisted in a tight knot of absolute bliss. The King adds a second digit then, just the tip of it, ever so carefully, helping it along with more generous portions of the oil, and the hobbit's heels dig into the fur, jaw clenching.

“Easy,” Thorin mumbles through feather-light kisses all over his groin, “ease into it.”

Bilbo obeys and does his best to relax his muscles, breathing deeply, his fists curling and uncurling in the long hairs of the fur, eyes shut tight. He almost squeals when Thorin drags him closer so that his bottom aims even higher up, resting on the dwarf's thighs – he blushes furiously, biting his lip, but it does offer Thorin better access, and his movements become more fluid and faster, his fingers hitting spots Bilbo didn't even know could feel so good. He moves to stroke himself, but the King bats his hand away, and when Bilbo looks at him, half confused, half utterly desperate, he merely says: “We don't want this to end before it started. Give me your hands.”

He gets a grip on both of his wrists and pins them below Bilbo, his knuckles digging into the small of his back – the position does put some tension into the hobbit's arms, but he enjoys it immensely, holding himself up quite easily, even though he's quite certain already he'll have a bruise or two tomorrow. All is forgotten though as Thorin attempts a third finger, simply circling the hole carefully for now – Bilbo wriggles in desperate desire, and is rewarded. The pressure knocks all air out of his lungs, and he simply lays still, eyes wide open, mouth hanging agape, breathing shaky.

“Good?” Thorin mutters, and Bilbo blinks at him almost incredulously.

“Uh-huh,” he manages.

Sweat breaks on his brow, and he arches his neck back, the intakes of breath hungry and erratic, his fingers curling under the King's firm hold, and he feels himself loosening up with every careful, languid thrust.

“Please...” he groans, “please, just get... get on with it, I...”

“Not yet,” comes a curt reply, Thorin's own voice changed with the lust, even deeper and huskier, “I would hurt you.”

“N-no, I... I promise you I can take it, just please...”

“Hush.”

Bilbo all but growls, managing to wriggle himself free and sit up in Thorin's lap – the dwarf huffs in surprise, managing to steady him before he loses balance, and Bilbo grabs fistfuls of his hair, their mouths but inches apart.

“I said,” he hisses, grinding his hips, not quite ready for the sensation of their cocks rubbing together himself, but merely aiming to make the King pay attention (which, judging by the choked groan, he succeeds at), “I can take it.”

 

Thorin's eyes widen in mute wonder, and Bilbo supports his statement by rocking his hips one more time, reveling in the slick warmth of it all, and the King's fingers still firmly in place.

“You...” Thorin begins, but his words end in a dry gulp when Bilbo reaches in between them.

“Yes?” the hobbit drawls.

“You will... You'll hurt tomorrow.”

Beyond the haze of lust, there is genuine concern in his eyes, and Bilbo cannot but kiss him then, deep and genuine.

“I know,” he mumbles, sealing his words with one more peck, “oh, I know. But please.”

Their hips swaying in unison now, Thorin hangs his head, and Bilbo presses kisses to his brow, fingers raking his sweat-drenched locks away from his face, scratching his temples gently.

“Please,” he repeats, and the dwarf lets out a shaky sigh.

“Oh, you will be the death of me.”

Bilbo's witty rejoinder dies in a wince when Thorin pulls his fingers out. A sudden excitement seizes him as he watches him reach for the small bottle.

“Give it,” he orders, and when the King fails to comprehend his intentions, he takes it from his hands, uncorks it, pours a generous portion of its contents into his own palm, and reaches for Thorin's cock.

He spreads the oil evenly with both his hands, long, slow strokes, watching his own work, because he feels the dwarf watching _him,_ and he's radiating an intensity Bilbo doesn't think he can quite bear. That is, until one large, warm hand cups his cheek, and Thorin is smiling ever so gently when he does brave looking up. He reciprocates with a somewhat nervous grin, and utterly disregarding the messy state of his hands (a Took, a Took, he will now forever be a Took, oh good heavens), he grabs onto the King's shoulders and heaves up. Thorin guides his own cock, and the very second its head presses against Bilbo's entrance, he knows it will be too much, but he also knows there is no possible scenario in which they're stopping now.

He _whimpers_ when Thorin finds his way in, but lowers himself further nevertheless, his breathing shallow and erratic, his fingers surely digging into the dwarf's shoulders too hard.

“If you're hurting, I... I...” Thorin mutters, his voice betraying him though.

“It's fine,” Bilbo assures him, “it's fine, it's fine, it's – _ah!_ ”

He has to grit his teeth, shuddering, feeling so full he thinks he might burst any second now. He attempts heaving himself up an imperceptible amount and sinking back, which rips a moan out of both of them – oh, he's sure he will not walk anywhere overmuch tomorrow, but right now, he knows he's capable of taking this, just like he swore.

His movements start out as only very slight and extremely careful, the line between pain and tense pleasure still very thin, but he discovers that if he takes it slow, there is... progress to be made. Thorin's eyes are shut tight, he sees, and in a bout of desire, he tugs at his hair, baring his neck and sealing his lips to it, sucking on the searing hot skin. Thorin groans and hisses with every breath he takes, his hands settling on Bilbo's hips, lowering him until he cries out, his spine arching back, then sagging. He's quite sure he's trembling as he wipes the salty drops of sweat from his brow. The King rocks both their hips gently, testing, and the hobbit whines, but begins moving on his own, hanging his head, eyes squished close, his hands in the damp curls on Thorin's chest.

“I...” he tries, “I...”

But the dwarf shuts him up quite effectively by quickening the pace – he can barely breathe against the tension, his toes curling, and he flings his arms around Thorin's neck helplessly, his forehead against the nape of his neck, quite incapable of anything but huffing hot breaths into his skin. His cock is brushing against Thorin's stomach now with every thrust, and things are getting very unbearable very quickly. Bilbo strokes himself, and this time the King doesn't stop him, merely groans in approval, his hands splayed over his butt cheeks gripping hard.

“Lay me... down,” Bilbo manages when it becomes obvious the dwarf is straining himself to keep them both upright, and the swiftness with which Thorin obliges makes him squeak, landing on his back in the fur.

Thorin's eyes are dark in the firelight, his skin glistening with sweat, and he really is the most glorious sight – but Bilbo doesn't get to keep his eyes open for long, because as soon as he wraps his legs around his waist, the King resumes dismantling him at a pace that leaves him gasping for breath with every thrust. He digs his nails into Thorin's back, secretly hoping to leave a mark, but mostly just holding on for dear life. He senses the dwarf is losing control, his movements losing rhythm and becoming more erratic, and through the blinding daze of his own coming release, he scrapes his head and his neck, mumbling delirious _I've got you_ 's until Thorin all but hammers him into the floor with the powerful snaps of his hips, rendering him utterly breathless.

 

The King climaxes with an almost pained groan, jaw set tight, and he collapses on one elbow, his hair falling into Bilbo's face, his hips jerking a few more times, slick and easy through the warmth of his release. He heaves hot breaths into the hobbit's chest, utterly spent and beautifully ragged, his fingers tangling weakly in Bilbo's hair. It takes him a while, but eventually he remembers Bilbo is not quite done yet – he lifts himself up, his eyes ensnaring the hobbit's, and Bilbo's skin tingles almost painfully on the very edge of bliss.

“Please,” he mumbles breathlessly, and later on he'll think there was an awful lot of begging that night, but right now, all he needs is his own climax, his stomach all but twisting with the yearning.

Thorin merely smiles, and pulls out slowly, gently, but still, it succeeds at making Bilbo moan and writhe, his hands scraping at Thorin's shoulders. His back arches when the King holds both their cocks in his hand, lowering himself over Bilbo and pressing kisses to his neck and collarbone, rocking gently – his hips begin jerking on their own, his legs splayed apart shamelessly, fingers tugging at Thorin's locks surely too harshly, but he feels it coming, and it's like winning and losing at the same time. His heart is beating frantically, chest heaving, and Thorin sucks on the delicate skin of his neck, and all at once it's too much, his cock twitching – he comes with an unrestricted cry, and he has to wrap his legs around Thorin's waist, his hips thrashing almost violently.

The King holds him through it all, his embrace lifting him off the ground effortlessly, then laying him back gently when his moans have turned into heavy breathing, their chests pressed together. Bilbo is deafened by the hammering of his heart, and he cannot but soothe Thorin's shoulders, his whole body relaxing – honestly, he's more than a little worried that if he lets go, he will dissipate completely into a pool of useless goo.

Still holding each other tight, Thorin rolls them over so that the hobbit is the one on top, and Bilbo lays his head on his chest, arms and legs hanging off to the sides weakly while the King's fingers trace his spine tenderly, almost lulling him to sleep.

“...So much for not breaking me in half,” he mumbles, and Thorin chuckles wearily.

 

At last, Bilbo finds enough strength to raise his head and look into his eyes, and at once, they are the color of the sea he's always dreamed of but has never seen, and with much hardship, he pushes himself closer and kisses the King under the Mountain, glad he is still capable of wringing at least a soft gasp out of him. Thinking he deserves to bask in the afterglow on his face for a bit, he keeps his head upright with immense effort, and Thorin simply blinks up at him, heavy-lidded eyes barely open, the quirk of a soft, sated smile to his lips.

A bit of a Baggins waking up within him when the slickness between them becomes more palpable, Bilbo sighs: “...Do you think the bathwater will still be warm?” and the dwarf's eyebrows arch up.

“Don't you think it's warm enough here?” he says.

“...Yes,” Bilbo mumbles, laying his head back on his chest, all of a sudden capable of hearing his heartbeat, and that's enough really, “but I think... I think we've ruined the fur.”

Thorin's torso rumbles in laughter, and the fire crackles happily, and if Bilbo falls asleep like that, no further thought of any mess he could possibly be worried about entering his mind, no one can really fault him. He might be a Baggins by name, but everything that stirs within him now is very distinctively Tookish.

-

 

“No! Absolutely out of the question!”

The Master rages, pacing in his richly decorated room in the City Hall, and Fili and Bard exchange an exasperated look – how many it's been since they came to convince the man of their plan, they couldn't possibly count.

“I expected the dwarf's greed to render him blind to danger, but _you?_ ” the Master turns to Bard, “you had me believing you cared for this city, but I should have known! Your precious Dale lies in ruins, do you really think conspiring with dwarves will help you change that?!”

“It's not about Dale!' Bard counters, “these people will _die,_ if it is of cold traveling to wherever you want to travel, or by burning alive in their own homes! Doing nothing will get us all killed!”

“Smaug will not leave the mountain unless he is provoked,” Gandalf, who's been listening to the argument from the corner of the room, a gloomy shadow over his brow, “it would be wise to let your women and children flee south while there is still time...-”

“Then why provoke the dragon at all?!” the Master cries, “I don't see why we don't let the dwarves deal with their own issues! We have helped you enough,” he turns to Fili, “and have asked nothing in return!”

“And _yet_ we are willing to help you protect this city and _slay the beast that's been threatening you for decades,_ ” Fili all but hisses, quickly losing patience, “and may I remind you the fate of _us all_ hinges on reclaiming Erebor right now.”

“...Oh?” the Master scoffs, “how is that?”

“A great danger is brewing north in the Grey Mountains,” Gandalf chimes in, “I've seen the horrors of Dol Guldur with my own eyes – the nine tombs of the Nazgul broken open, and dark magic the likes of which I haven't witnessed in an age... I can't fully comprehend what's happening until I return there – and return I must – but already there's talk of goblins and orcs amassing in Gundabad, and I assure you that's not all. Dealing with this dragon swiftly is the safest course of action, before you...-”

“Safest? _Safest?!_ ” the man exclaims, “I do not _care_ for the north, for orcs and goblins! Neither have been seen here for _centuries!_ No, there is no danger more imminent to my people than the dwarves' blind _lust_ for gold, and its consequences! Tell me why I shouldn't just banish your company from this city?!”

Fili catches Gandalf's brief glance, and sighs.

“...We will go ourselves,” he says dryly, which at the very least manages to silence the Master.

“...You will?”

“Yes. We will stay with our own, at the camp of Dain Ironfoot. You would do well to remember all the help he has offered you in the past days, by the way. If I'm any judge of his character, he will continue to do so, but for my part, I really cannot say _how_ I'll decide when my kingdom stands reclaimed. Now,” he raises his voice when the Master opens his mouth to protest, “your expenses will be repaid as previously agreed, but I don't think I will much desire to have any further dealings with a man who denies danger when it's glaring him in the face and _justifies that_ by trying to do good by his people. Good day.”

 

With that, he marches out of the room, sparing only a split-second glance at Bard, whose stern, worried features remain unreadable, and only ever exhales properly when the freezing outside air brushes at his face.

“Well, that was quite something,” Gandalf mutters almost happily, catching up with him, “I do believe your Uncle would be very proud.”

“Thank you,” Fili says curtly, swallowing the painful knot in his throat almost effortlessly, and looking up at the wizard, “but what about you? Will you really travel north?”

“Oh, not until I see your mountain reclaimed,” he smiles, than, as if remembering something fondly, “my my, I haven't performed a coronation in... well, in quite some time.”

“A coronation?” Fili chuckles, “I think we've a long way to go until we even begin discussing that.”

“That's very true, I'm afraid.”

“...But if it means anything to you, I would enjoy you performing it.”

“Oh, thank you!” Gandalf laughs, his eyes glinting joyfully, “and I would enjoy you being the one subject to it.”

They make their way to tell the rest of the company the news – they are less than thrilled, as is to be expected, but they manage to relocate to Dain's camp before dark falls. Fili returns to the city one last time, officially because he needs to speak with Bard and whatnot, but the truth is Dain's tents are suffocating – he's gotten quite used to having his own room, however tiny, where he could spend time alone with his thoughts, or, more importantly, avoid running into his brother for the better part of any day. The camp is always awake, always loud, and even though many find something to do, some work to help out with, Fili still feels like he needs to get away. Kili gets a tent opposite his, and it's horrifying how quickly Fili comes up with a reason to all but run away.

They have barely spoken one word since the... the painful argument, and though he does not want to admit it to himself, Fili has lost all solid ground under his feet when it comes to dealing with Kili. He doesn't even recognize his little brother at times, and it's frightening – and fright is a highly inconvenient state of mind for him right now, which is why he forcibly buries all his issues deep, deep down, for when a time comes that he can allow himself to deal with them. He knows Balin senses the tension, because Balin senses everything that goes on with him, it seems, and he's grateful for the lack of questions. If Fili had let him, the old dwarf would probably say something along the lines of ' _wars can only be fought and won with a clear head_ ', or some other wonderfully vague and slightly nagging quote, but Fili is currently very, very determined to avoid listening to that at all costs.

 

Utterly lost in his thoughts, he doesn't even register the figure coming to him from the forest – it is Legolas, and he almost startles Fili when he matches his stride, seemingly out of the blue.

“...Good evening,” he utters.

“And to you. I hear you angered the men?” Legolas inquires lightly.

“They angered me, as well,” Fili states, and the elf's lips quirk in a smile.

“I can imagine. ...I came to tell you that I received a missive from my Father.”

“Oh?” Fili sighs, “and?”

“He wishes us all the best of luck in our endeavors,” Legolas says so dryly that Fili can't help but chuckle.

“I see. ...Will you return to your home, then?”

Legolas raises his eyebrows in genuine surprise.

“And why exactly would I do that?”

Fili frowns, confused.

“Well, I just assumed... I mean, I can't imagine there's much going on here that would be of interest to you.”

The elf laughs gleefully at that.

“'Nothing of interest?' The opportunity to watch you wrestle with all this is more than enough to amuse me.”

“Ah, yes, elves and their zest for watching others suffer,” Fili scowls.

“It _is_ extremely satisfying,” Legolas counters, “but honestly, there is a live dragon to be slain. I'm not leaving the chance to be witness to _that_ behind.”

Fili grants him a short smile, and they walk down the hill slowly, Esgaroth below them beginning to flicker alive in the night like a thousand fireflies awakening.

“...I'm sensing you have more to tell me?” Fili sighs, and yet again, the elf chuckles with a lightness he can't quite comprehend.

“There is... news I believe you might find very good,” Legolas offers, and his smile broadens when Fili looks up at him with genuine interest, “but it is not for me to convey. Come.”

 

He leads him into the forest where the elves have set up a makeshift camp – even with very little provisions, they manage to chase away the darkness of a small clearing near a now-invisible bubbling spring, their tents few, but tall and well lit, the fabric they're made of crisp white, almost translucent. There is soft murmur, and the crackling of fire, even a distant melody being played, and though he would not admit it to anyone, Fili feels almost cozy there for those few fleeting moments. By the fire in the middle of the camp, a familiar figure greets him.

“How is the dragon slaying going, then?” Tauriel grins as he frowns at her in confusion.

“What're you doing here?” Fili wants to know, “did the Elvenking let you go, or...?”

“Not quite,” she smiles, “I came on my own.”

“...I don't understand,” Fili turns to Legolas, “what is going on?”

“Tell him,” the elven prince beckons Tauriel.

“As of... well, about four days ago, your Thorin Oakenshield was alive.”

 

There's not much that ever renders Fili speechless, but he finds himself incapable of reacting to her words properly for the longest time, simply gaping at her, dumbstruck.

“H-how do you...” he breathes out, “I mean... are you certain?”

He feels weak in the knees, and he sorely needs something, anything to lean on. The air he inhales is suddenly so wonderfully cold his lungs feel like bursting.

“We kept receiving such distressing missives from the north,” Tauriel explains, “the birds talked of orcs on the move and goblins and trolls appearing further south than ever, but the King would not have it, until another orc pack literally stumbled onto our doorstep. We... attempted interrogation, but all we could get out of them was that they were scouting. They didn't even seem to know we were there. ...I persuaded the King to set up patrols, and we intercepted more of the same soon enough. Tracking their steps, we discovered a lone settlement on the very border of the forest. We were forbidden to interfere from then on, but the orcs were still there, circling the Great Eastern Road, as if waiting for something...

We saw them then, one night – a man and a dwarf, scouting ahead as if trying to determine if it was safe. We... watched. Disposed of the orcs when they got too close for our liking. The two never saw us. This went on for several days, and winter came, and we were ordered to return to the Halls for good. The dwarf and the man stopped coming out of their home as well, and we decided to drop the whole thing, as the King didn't seem too keen on any further investigation.”

Fili blinks at her slowly, her eyes gleaming with a zeal he's very far from feeling.

“...That could have been anyone,” he supplies, not allowing himself much hope, and she all but groans.

“Of _course_ it could have been anyone. I'm sure many dwarves settle down alone this close to Mirkwood, you know. I described his appearance to the King, and he said the same thing, but _trust me,_ the look in his eyes told a different story. ...Does Orcrist mean anything to you?”

Fili attempts to answer, but words get lodged in his throat at first.

“It... yes, it does,” he manages to breathe out, “we found the blade in a troll hoard a... a while back.”

“...And we recognized it in the hands of the dwarf right away,” Tauriel offers.

 

Fili does sit down then, slumps on the nearest log, and all strength has left him – he knows better than to weep with sheer joy in front of elves, so he merely runs his hands over his face, staring dead ahead, palms plastered over his mouth to keep everything that he'd like to yell about inside. It takes a couple of very deep breaths to settle down, but his heart still races as he gets up again.

“...Thank you,” he says, and his voice is a bit less steady than he'd fancy, “I... thank you. ...But do you know what is of him now?”

The elf shrugs.

“I did go to take a look when I left two days ago, but the settlement seemed deserted. And I didn't encounter anyone on my way here.”

“I see...” Fili sighs, already planning on telling all this to the company, when he thinks of something else, “...did the Elvenking send you here to tell us?”

At that, the two elves exchange a curt look, and Legolas says: “My Father would have you remain oblivious. Tauriel decided...”

“I decided you should know,” she states firmly, “also, far more importantly, I really longed to see the situation here. I couldn't possibly let Legolas have all the fun, you see.”

“...Won't the Elvenking be...-”

“Furious? Livid with rage?” Tauriel finishes his query, “probably very.”

“You see, the Captain here doesn't have much regard for consequences,” Legolas adds bitterly.

“Oh, you're the one to talk! You left first!”

“And did you have to go and _take it one step further?_ ”

“ _Alright,_ well,” Fili interrupts them, not interested in an elven argument in the least, “thank you again. I... I hope matters will be resolved.”

“Oh, you shouldn't worry about us,” Tauriel smiles sweetly, gracefully ignoring Legolas' scoff, “go tell your company the good news. I believe we will speak later.”

 

He all but bolts out of the camp, jogging up the hill, the matters he'd set up for in Esgaroth forgotten completely in light of the news. He ignores all of Dain's kin and searches for his own, bursts into Kili's tent without a second thought, and finds it deserted. Fortunately, he runs into Bofur, and all but orders him to gather the company, the image of their faces when he tells them setting his heart ablaze.

It takes time, as they're scattered all over the camp, but it exceeds all expectation. Fili falters a little when he notices his brother is missing, as well as Ori, but he cannot keep the good news in any longer, and he fumbles over words as he explains Tauriel's story. They cheer and embrace each other, and there's even a teary eye or two, their joy returning a long-dimmed gleam to their eyes.

“We do not boast this,” Balin says after they've calmed down, a sensible wariness in his voice, “for our own sakes. Let us agree that Dain will not learn of this until after we've made absolutely certain that Thorin is indeed alive. Agreed?”

Some of them seem a little confused, but they nod along more or less obligingly. 

“We have hope now, and that is enough,” Fili adds, “Thorin might see his kingdom reclaimed yet, but we cannot count on him to show up in time, or... or at all. We've work to do, and welcoming him into the halls of Erebor will be rewarding enough for all of us.”

He has more to say, but Gandalf enters the tent, head bowed low, followed closely by Kili and Ori.

“There you are, all of you!” the wizard exclaims.

“We have good news!” Ori exclaims.

“So do we!”

They are brought up to speed swiftly, and Fili watches his brother's features light up with a genuine joy he hasn't seen in what feels like ages, a wide grin spreading over his face as he wraps his arms around Ori, who flushes and squeaks as Kili all but lifts him off the ground, exclaiming victoriously. But it's still as if Fili doesn't exist in his brother's eyes, and the span of the room, the tent, separating them seems desperately unbridgeable. 

“Well, well,” Gandalf's voice jolts him back into reality, “this is almost too good to be true, and I wonder if it isn't too much luck for one little company!”

They dismiss him loudly and cheerfully, demanding to learn his good news.

“Ori?” the wizard beckons.

“Right... right. Yes,” the youngest dwarf mutters, “well, I read a book in, in a library in the city, about... well, about the time before Smaug. And it was mostly about the men of course, but it spoke of Erebor as well, and Dale, and it mentioned how the two cities often... often communicated through birds. That the men of Girion's line understood their speech, and that the dwarves of Erebor had... ravens that they could converse with?”

“...Aye,” Balin affirms tentatively, “there were ravens once. But I don't think they survived Smaug's arrival.”

“I thought so, too,” Gandalf interjects, “but all manner of birds have been surprisingly... lively these past few days. Some have been seen flying as far as the mountain itself. Now, though he does not know it, Bard possesses the skill to speak to some of them, I believe, or at least understand their language. The plan, if we all manage to agree on it, will be to send birds to the mountains, with one sole goal in mind – to convince Smaug that there are dwarves waiting in Laketown, plotting against him with men. This should... spite him enough to crawl out.”

“The elves might help with the birds as well,” Fili notes, “I'd like to tell them either way.”

“We'll see what we can do. We should alert all sides tomorrow,” Gandalf nods, “you do understand that this is a one way road. Once Smaug learns of your presence, and leaves the mountain, there is no turning back. We will have an enraged dragon on our hands. We must make sure that everyone is ready for that, or... as ready as we can ever be.”

 

They gaze at him and each other uncharacteristically quietly, an unease setting between them. Perhaps they are realizing it fully for the first time, Fili thinks, just how close they are. Having an actual plan, however far-fetched, is something they've always had very little hope for, he knows, despite all their brave talk and strength of will – the future has begun to take shape very suddenly, and it is a disconcerting one at best. 

They spend some more time plotting and worrying, until Gandalf wisely reminds them that tomorrow they'll all have clearer heads and a good night's sleep in them, and Fili leaves for his tent – excited, his mind abuzz, he almost fails to notice Kili joining him. He opens his mouth to say something when his brother matches his stride, but nothing comes out, and they walk to their tents in utter silence.

“Can I... talk to you?” Kili says almost sheepishly then, and Fili's spine tingles.

“Of course,” he murmurs, and Kili's features seem to all but melt at that, gentle and very, very young in the softening light of the lanterns.

When inside, his brother paces nervously, fidgeting, and Fili can't help but allow himself a small smile.

“What is it?” he beckons him lightly.

“Right, well... uh, Ori wanted you to know that he thinks the birds...-”

“ _Kili,_ ” Fili crosses the distance between them resolutely, glaring at his brother until he looks up reluctantly, “I want to talk, but not about _birds._ ”

 

He's not sure where his bravery is coming from, but surprisingly enough, Kili nods, sighing softly.

“Look, I'm... I'm sorry I... assaulted you like that. It was inappropriate,” he states, every word causing him evident hardship, and then he gazes at Fili, his best look their mother used to call kicked-kitty, as if he's expecting anything more than Fili's incredulous huff of dry laughter.

“ _That_ is what you're apologizing for?”

“...What?” Kili retorts.

“Oh, Mahal... Alright,” Fili groans, “don't you think we have bigger issues than you kissing me?”

Kili scowls, hurt.

“I just felt like... We've been through so much...”

“ _Yes!_ We _have_ been through so much!' Fili exclaims, his voice almost failing him – he doesn't know what he'd expected but a moment ago, but another pointless argument where both sides barely know what they're talking about wasn't it.

“Somehow, we've managed to survive without Thorin, and without... without _each other,_ for this long, and I'm just wondering... have you learnt nothing from it? I don't want to fight with you.”

Kili gazes at him, bewildered, and Fili sees it then – that no matter what he tells him, somehow, his brother won't understand. He feels himself losing energy just talking about it, and... is that really worth it?

“I'm sorry, I...”

“No,” Fili cuts off his feeble attempt, “don't apologize. Not like this. Not unless you know what you're apologizing _for_.”

“I just thought... well, what with the good news, that we might...”

“What? Will our troubles away?” Fili counters sharply, and an anger he didn't know he possessed rises within him, inevitable and red-hot, like a blade fresh out of a forge.

“Thorin will not solve our problems for us, Kili!” he says harshly, “I said this once, and it seems I have to say it again – we're not twenty anymore, and we can't go running to Uncle, or Balin, or Mother, when something's troubling us. We need to face this head on, and _deal with it_ properly!”

“That's not what I meant!” Kili cries, “and you know it! I just thought now was as good a time as any to... to mend this! I tried telling you I was lost, so many times before, but you didn't listen! I had to settle for helping you from afar, since you wouldn't have me! All I'm saying is, please... _please,_ be patient with me. I'm trying to...-”

 

“No.”

Something snaps in place. There is nothing but hard, stone-cold dismissal in Fili's voice and heart alike, that which his Mother and Uncle alike wielded with such precision, that which he used to fear, because it meant something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. But now he understands it perfectly, understands that one has to adopt it when all else has failed.

“Kili, _no,_ ” he repeats, and through the defiance in his eyes, he watches a some sort of weak realization dawn on his little brother, “you _tormented me._ There wasn't a day in these past few weeks, in those god-forsaken Halls, that I didn't spend thinking about what I'd done wrong, or how I could have angered you, or how _you_ must have been suffering. _I needed you._ I was _alone,_ and out of my depth, and in... in _pain,_ and you were acting like a little brat! Don't... don't even. You kept throwing temper tantrums over the most ridiculous things, you were stubborn and _incredibly_ brash. And now? 

Now you have the _audacity_ to say that _you_ were the one trying to approach _me?_ That I should be _patient_ with you?! I've been patient long enough! I tried apologizing, I tried approaching you, I tried _everything in my power,_ and I never stopped to realize that this whole time, it was _you_ who needed a goddamn lesson in consequences! Don't you dare look at me like that! Do you think _now_ is the time?! _Really?!_ Come to me when we've slain a dragon, saved a kingdom _and_ managed to survive the diplomatic atrocity that is sure to follow, and we'll talk. For now, I have more pressing matters to attend to, and you are _draining me._ ”

 

Kili looks as if he's been stricken, but Fili doesn't feel a twinge of guilt. Regret, yes, and a horrible, heavy sadness spreading in his chest and making his heart beat hollow at the thought of losing his brother like this; but he knows he's in the right, however terrible it is. He watches the transformation on his brother's face, the vulnerability quickly forgotten – his eyes are still large, gleaming unnaturally when he looks at Fili, but his jaw is set tight, teeth gritted, brow knitted low in a stern frown. He says nothing, simply nods curtly, spins on his heel and marches out of the tent, cold air wafting in, and Fili chest heaves free and he realizes it's been so constricted he could barely breathe. But every inhale is horrendously painful now, and he slumps on his bed, his face in his hands in a moment of weakness, the empty void growing within him filling him with fright, and doubt, and despair so powerful it forbids him to fall asleep for many more hours.

 

When he wakes up, his temples are throbbing and he feels as if he's moving through water, his muscles heavy and sore. He knows not whether he slept for twenty minutes or the whole night, but he is forced to forget his state quickly, as Gandalf picks him up, and they make their way to the city. Once the situation is explained to the men, they convince the Master, already beginning to bubble with rage, to call an official meeting, with Dain and the elves as well. After some bickering, it is set for early afternoon, which gives them time to bring Legolas and Tauriel up to speed. Fili and Gandalf then part from all the resolving ruckus, and light a pipe by one of the dwarven camp's fires, with a good view of the Mountain and the lake, and far away from anything demanding their attention.

The Lonely Mountain and the Great Lake alike are blanketed in stripes of white fog, and when they focus carefully, they can see flocks of birds like black dots crossing the span of the water in this direction or that. 

“...Have you ever been to Erebor, Gandalf?” Fili mumbles, weariness finally overcoming him, the warmth of the bonfire next to him almost lulling him to sleep.

“Unfortunately not,” the wizard responds softly, “but I hear it's worth the trouble.” 

Fili smiles bitterly, closing his eyes and inhaling sharply, hoping for the freezing morning air to energize him a bit more.

“Me neither,” he sighs.

“...That doesn't mean you cannot rule it,” Gandalf offers simply.

“...I think I will leave the honors to Thorin after all,” Fili utters.

“Hmm, really?” Gandalf muses, and when Fili looks at him with a question in his eyes, he simply blinks at him, and proceeds to blow not one smoke ring, but two, one smaller within the other, each turning slowly in a different direction as they rise towards the azure sky, and then disperse.

“I imagine Thorin will be quite amazed when he learns of everything you've achieved,” the wizard adds.

“...But I imagine he will still want to rule,” Fili offers.

“...If you let him,” Gandalf responds entirely enigmatically, “besides... who knows what he and Master Baggins have been up to since we saw them last.”

Fili's brow furrows in confusion.

“Gandalf, I...-”

 

But they are interrupted by one of Dain's soldiers reminding them to join the warlord on his way to Esgaroth soon, and their conversation is somewhat forgotten after that.

 

The whole company join Dain's group, and Fili gets to see Kili for the first time since last night – his face is pale, eyes dim, and overall, he looks somewhat disheveled, like he didn't get much sleep either. Fili escapes the sight quickly by jogging ahead to march at Dain's side, letting the older dwarf ramble on and complain about all the wrongdoings of men and elves alike.

He is an absolute menace dealing with the Master, both of them headstrong and too proud to budge, but matters calm down somewhat after Gandalf steers the discussion resolutely, making his presence in the large room in the City Hall known just like he did once in Bilbo's home, Fili remembers – he rises from his seat and suddenly he's everywhere, the shadows darkening, windows rattling with the strength of his voice, and it matters not what he says, but how he says it. Elves and men and dwarves alike grow silent afterward, and the wizard, looking smaller and older than ever, gestures weakly to Fili, who nods slightly.

“The important thing is,” he states, and fortunately, everyone listens, “to get the people of this city out of it, and soon.”

“I think we should get everyone out of it,” someone says, and Fili is not alone in his nasty shock when he sees it's Kili.

He stands up quickly to quell the rising confusion and protests, and says clearly: “I don't mean to retreat – but the dragon will see Dain's troops, and Bard's troops, when he comes, and I don't think there's anything we will be able to do when he decides to burn us to a cinder. I say we hide in the surrounding forest.”

Bard, who is sitting next to him, nods appreciatively, and adds: “This might work. We might confuse him.”

“Dragons fear water,” Legolas chimes in, “I assume soldiers are nothing but toys to him, but if he is surrounded... if we send a troop to the ruins of Dale perhaps...”

“Trap him above the lake,” Bard says.

“You can't _trap a dragon!_ ” the Master exclaims.

“You can't _fight_ a dragon,” Fili says loudly, standing up also, “but my brother is right, troops stacked up just waiting for him will be easy prey. None of us will ever know how to approach this, and I expect our chances of success are not great, but we should at least attempt devising some sort of plan, however far-fetched, while we have the time.”

He exchanges a very quick glance with Kili, vague and cold, but somehow grounding, and then the discussion grows and gets louder as they plot and disagree and shout, and when a sort of plan is reached and they stumble outside, they find darkness has all but fallen, and all sides retreat to their respective camps.

 

Fili can't quite believe all of it is happening – he lays under his numerous covers, sleepless, churning the plan over in his head, desperately failing at not thinking about everything that could go wrong at any given turn. It is quite simple, and it might either be its glory, or its bane – once the people of Laketown have evacuated more or less successfully, the positions will be assumed – Dain will spread half his troops as fair into the mountains as they'll be able to get, to surround the lake. No one is expecting those to do much fighting, since the number of archers in his army isn't large – which is why most of them will be staying with Bard's men in Laketown itself, surrounded by water and thus becoming the perfect vantage point (“And a target,” someone supplies grimly at one point). The elves, since there is so little of them, will accompany Fili and the rest, who will travel to Dale. Their arrival there will be announced to the rest, and thus ignite the last stage of the plan – concealed with the company in the ruins as best they can, the elves will send a messenger bird to the Mountain itself... and wait. It all hinges on far too many 'hopefully's and 'if we're lucky's, and it's a wonder everyone has agreed to it. For all they know, Smaug might not have any weakness whatsoever, and they would all burn to a cinder, or drown, in a matter of minutes.

 

The mood in the coming days illustrates their low hopes perfectly – the weather is bleak and it snows almost constantly as they assist the last people of Esgaroth to leave their homes behind, and set out south, to Minas Tirith. The city grows very quiet very quickly, houses upon houses deserted, forges extinguished, marketplaces emptied of every little scrap of provisions. 

Dain disperses his camp and relocates, the woods somehow swallowing his formidable army whole, disturbingly enough. Legolas decides to send one last missive to his Father in Mirkwood, but hopes for nothing much, as he confides in Fili – and receives no answer at all.

The day the company are to set out for Dale is beautiful, the sky devoid of clouds, snow crisp white and crackling under the sun's sharp rays – it's highly unsettling, Fili decides. The whole thing seems truly laughable then, as he watches his company get ready, so few of them, set to travel light with nothing much but their weapons, the elves weighing their bows next to them an almost ridiculous sight. He scans the abandoned city with unease, until Bard comes to stand by his side, and say his goodbyes. 

“Well then,” he begins somewhat gruffly, “I suppose I should thank you...?”

“...For convincing you and your men to plunge headfirst to almost certain death?” Fili chuckles dryly, “you are most welcome.”

“Ah, yes,” Bard barks a laugh, “that, too. But mostly for being truthful with me. ...I must say a part of me expected you to leave us here for good to become dragon food. But your brother tells me him staying behind means you're... securing your interests? Thank you. I promise I will not forget this if we walk out alive.”

Fili opens his mouth with an automatic response, but freezes.

“What, my... My brother said what?”

“...That... you allowed him to stay because his archery skills will come to better use here, and also... yes, also because it meant letting us know that you're not abandoning us. I can't presume to understand your people's customs, but I appreciate the gesture nevertheless. I'll do everything in my power to try and keep him safe.”

 

Fili gapes at him, utterly speechless, his heart beating frantically, then manages to breathe out: “...Excuse me.”, leaving him swiftly, no thought spared for his baffled grimace.

He finds Kili conversing with Balin, away from the rest of the company.

“What _in Durin's name_ do you think you're doing?!” he exclaims furiously, marching towards his brother, until Balin steps in his way, gently but resolutely.

“Settle down, lad. This is a good thing.”

“A _good thing?!_ You will not solve anything by staying behind!”

“ _Fili,_ ” Balin's hand plastered firmly on his chest stops him in his tracks, “calm down. Your brother is thinking ahead.”

“Oh, really?! It seems to me that he's not thinking at all!”

“Who's the childish one now?” Kili mumbles, and Fili almost shoves Balin away at that, but regains composure quickly, merely fuming in quiet rage.

His eyes meet Kili's properly then, and a dull ache sets in his chest when he meets nothing but calm determination in them.

“...What are you doing?” he pleads weakly, and Kili's facade falters for a fleeting second, but none of his resolve is lost.

“If we survive this,” he says quietly, “Bard is our chance at making good with the men. Not the Master. I'm trying to help.”

Fili's response lodges in his throat, and he hangs his head.

“...Balin, leave us, please,” he sighs, and the old dwarf obliges tentatively, and only after Fili nods at him reassuringly, adding: “Tell the others to get ready, we're leaving in three minutes.”

 

When they are left alone, Fili cannot bring himself to look into Kili's eyes anymore for a good long while, until his brother steps closer, saying almost tenderly: “It'll be alright. ...You were right, you know. I was a fool. This is the one thing... one _adult_ thing, I can do.”

“Oh, don't toy with me,” Fili groans, and when he does look up, his brother's features are chiseled and stern, “this is not an _adult_ thing to do. You're staying behind to spite me, because you're still incapable of realizing that there are bigger things at stake than this... this grudge of ours.”

Kili scoffs at that so coldly Fili almost gasps with the real, physical pain of his heart faltering.

“Or maybe, _maybe,_ ” his brother states, “I'm doing this _exactly because_ I've finally realized that there are bigger things at stake. Bard trusts you completely now, and if we survive, _that_ is one of the things you can rebuild the kingdom upon.”

Fili feels his eyes welling with tears, unexpected and unwelcome, and his gaze drops and he grits his teeth against them.

“...It'll be alright,” Kili repeats, stepping even closer, and to Fili's shock, he lays his hand on his shoulder, and he has to look up again then – and Kili is smiling ever so softly, and he's not quite certain he can handle that.

“All I'm asking you is to trust me,” Kili says, “hoping that you can still do that after... after everything.”

Fili gulps heavily against the sharp ache rising in his throat, and finds himself ensnared by his brother's gaze. Finally, he gives into the overwhelming turmoil of yearning and regret in his head, and places his hand on Kili's shoulder in turn, the gesture simple and age-old, and telling.

“I trust you,” he states, glad that his voice doesn't betray him, “with all I have, still. ...And I do need you, so don't... don't you dare die here.”

Kili smiles.

“You've been doing wonderful without me,” he notes softly, and there is not a hint of irony in it, which almost breaks Fili's heart in half.

“Shut up,” he retorts, “and live. That _is_ an order.”

Kili's face spreads in a ghost of a grin Fili used to be on the receiving end of daily before... before all of this, and the wave of bitter nostalgia that washes over him almost knocks him off his feet.

“I'll be fine,” he says stoutly, “as long as you will.”

 

And to Fili's surprise, his little brother is the one to put an end to the moment, patting his shoulder one last time, almost cheerfully, and then hurrying off to the men. Fili's eyes are glued to him the whole time, longing for him to turn back and grant him one last look over the shoulder, but he doesn't, and Balin comes to stand by his side instead.

“It's time to go,” he says almost apologetically, and Fili allows himself precisely one last ragged exhale before he regains his posture, and nods sharply.

“Let's go.”

 

Gandalf waits for them by a boat on the shore of the lake, and they get in with some fussing and grumbling, but then they are off, and what little noise there was in the city is quickly dulled and then silenced completely by the fog they delve into. They barely speak at all, the only sound the water splashing around the paddles, and the two buzzards clucking from their sitting place on the gauntlets of the elves. Fili gazes to where Esgaroth is slowly becoming a dark, dreary blur in the eerie haze.

“You know, there is one thing I've always found slightly odd,” Legolas says, suddenly appearing by his side.

“Hmm?” Fili breathes out.

“If the birds are coming in and out of the Mountain, as Gandalf thinks, then how come the dragon hasn't come out sooner? _If_ he is awake. I just find it strange that he is utterly unaware of what's happening so close to him.”

Fili opens his mouth to say something, but then something dark and slender like a dart dashes over their heads towards Esgaroth behind them. The elves' birds flap their wings and squeak, startled, and everyone stills, listening.

'What on earth was that?” someone hisses.

They can't see very far now, surrounded completely by the fog, which, they notice, is beginning to smell like smoke.

“Probably a confused bird-” Legolas says, but just then, another one dashes so low over the boat that it almost hits the elves, and then another two, small ones and thus not so fast, but still flapping their wings almost frantically and making their way across the lake back where their boat came from.

The elves scan the fog, their eyes far better in this environment than those of dwarves.

“There are more coming,” Tauriel, who is at the nose of the boat, says tensely, and they all hear it then, the murmur of numerous wings.

The birds come at them out of the blue, evidently spooked by something and calling out, from all sides, and they watch with increasing unease as more and more appear and fly away from the mountain.

'What is going _on?!_ ” Bofur exclaims.

“I don't like this,” Dwalin growls, and the boat sways as dwarves and elves alike turn to get a better look.

 

Just then, one of the buzzards gets free of its master and joins the fleeing flocks, the elf calling after it in sindarin in vain. The dwarves begin grumbling in distress, reaching for their weapons, when the birds stop coming as swiftly as they began, the flapping of their wings slowly dying off in the distance – but the silence that follows is infinitely more ominous than before, and they stop paddling, the boat almost coming to a halt. They grow utterly still, waiting, but hear nothing but the soft moaning of the wind for the longest time.

“I see something,” Legolas utters, straining his eyes.

“Another bird,” Tauriel affirms.

They watch it utterly breathlessly, a lone, tiny one, slower than the rest, all eyes following its path and gaping at it until it disappears in the distance – confused looks are exchanged, and they turn back to their paddles, but with the boat's first jolt forward, they hear it.

The roar is immense, echoing off the mountainsides, reverberating in their own chests, stunning them to their very core. They see a blaze of orange light through the fog, and then a massive shadow separating from the Lonely Mountain, rising and making its way directly to them.

Everyone begins shouting at once, and Fili exchanges a fleeting, knowing glance with Legolas, then Tauriel.

“It is too soon,” the elven prince says uncharacteristically weakly, “he's coming too soon.”

 

Fili is speechless. The boat stills once again as they agree that they have more chances of survival if the dragon doesn't spot them (or _decides not to_ spot them, as someone points out), and the silence is utterly horrible, Fili's heart hammering against his ribcage the only sound he's registering. He watches the frightened faces of his kin, and he knows it then, knows that they have so feeble a chance at succeeding it's almost nonexistent. His last thought is a wordless, desperate prayer for his brother, because he knows it even before it happens – releasing another roar and a column of fire that shoots across the lake, its glow distorted by the fog, giving it the appearance of summer fireworks, or a falling star, the massive shadow of the dragon Smaug dashes over their heads, his large wings working almost languidly, and he makes his way straight towards Esgaroth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well well well. Promises schwomises. I'm so sorry I kept you guys waiting for so long! But nevertheless here is a new chapter, properly mature this time, and also passing the 100k mark. And a lot of other marks. GOD am I sorry for the length. This is entirely ridiculous and probably horrible to read - to think I doubled the word count of the first chapter!! O.o   
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it, you probably deserve a cookie or a billion for managing to read through it. Thank you again for your continous support! :)


	7. The Calm Before the Storm

He's never felt so warm in his entire life. The hearth of Bag End can't quite compete with Thorin Oakenshield, his arms when they wrap around him, the huffs of breath that carry Bilbo's name. The hobbit revels in it all, the laziness of their days spent together at Harrow Mill, in the middle of nowhere, utterly alone. The reasonable part of him knows that it is all indeed just temporary, as they are merely waiting for the person Matylda said would come claim the Mill – and if ever he manages to forget, Thorin reminds him rather enthusiastically. Though still rather reserved (as is after all his nature, Bilbo tells himself), the King does speak more freely, and apparently has the need to speak about a lot, including his plans for the upcoming journey to Esgaroth, inevitable, and, as far as the hobbit is concerned, looming on the horizon of their days a tad unpleasantly. Not that he would ever admit anything to that effect, what with the King's excitement, reigned in, but still noticeable.

And so, not wanting to disturb what he feels is a rare peace of mind for Thorin, and without really asking, Bilbo learns about a large portion of dwarven history, Mahal and Durin and the great kingdoms, the names sounding utterly foreign but still beautiful, Thorin's voice low and gentle as if he's telling Bilbo a bedtime story, his fingers trailing the length of his spine under the covers they're bundled in against the winter. 

The King doesn't speak much about his kin's most recent history though, and Bilbo doesn't ask yet – he understands that Thorin had to watch his grandfather and brother die, and that his father disappeared, and the memory of what he'd overheard Gandalf and Elrond talking about in Rivendell all that time ago (he remembers the words ' _a strain of madness'_ and ' _can you swear he will not also fall'_ with disturbing clarity, but manages to disregard them utterly for days on end) is still something they will need to discuss at one point, but if it were him, he'd probably try to forget as swiftly as he could. Thus, he talks about the Shire instead, and they have a good time of comparing their customs, Thorin often in disbelief, or even outright shocked.

“Tell me _what_ is so special about different flowers?”

“What's so special about different gems?” Bilbo retorts, “each flower has a meaning of its own, devised... what do I know? Probably centuries ago. The lasses wear different ones in their hair for every occasion, every stage of life they find themselves in, and it's very telling! It's a tradition!”

“Oh, well, yes, I understand traditions,” the dwarf shrugs, “but... flowers? They're so... frail.”

“But beautiful!”

“Precious stones have the same range of colors, _and_ they last forever!”

“Oh, golly me,” Bilbo sighs, “it's not about _lasting forever_ with flowers. It's about... you see, it's about...”

 

His voice lodges in his throat under Thorin's genuinely interested, scrutinizing look, his features soft, the firelight from the hearth they're lying by evening out the wrinkles around his eyes. Giving in to his momentary desire, Bilbo scoots closer, planting a soft kiss on warm lips.

“...It's about gestures,” he mumbles, cupping Thorin's cheek, “about the _language._ ...For example, I would... oh my, this is going to sound ridiculous, but I would put... wild daisies, and bluebells, and, and... honesty, probably, in your hair to... oh, forget it!” he stutters when he notices the smile quirking the dwarf's lips.

“Oh no, please,” Thorin grins, “tell me what those mean.”

“Well, I won't now. You've ruined it.”

“Oh, no,” the King groans, pulling the hobbit close so that he is quite helpless in his embrace, “I'm so sorry. Let me make it up to you.”

Bilbo all but squeaks, rather undignified.

“Stop it, you,” he makes a feeble attempt at wriggling free, but gives up quite quickly and straddles Thorin until he lies on his back with Bilbo triumphantly on top.

“Anyhow,” he declares, “your _mane_ is not exactly flower wreaths material.”

“Are you insulting my _hair?_ ” Thorin laughs, seemingly content to just lie back and observe the hobbit fuss about, “it seems to me you're assuming I would let you anywhere near it. You see, braids are to us what flowers are to your people.”

Bilbo frowns.

“Wh- _how?_ How is that even possible?”

Thorin chuckles.

“Oh, yes,” he declares, “there are many kinds of braids and knots, and beads, to be put in both beard and hair.”

“...Such as?”

“Well...” the King's gaze loses focus, as if he's remembering a tale long gone, “braids signifying age, for example. Or the affiliation to a clan. In the great cities, the membership in a guild. ...Betrothal. The number of children, in a woman's case.”

Bilbo gazes at him for some time, recognizing the somber undertones of his voice quite well.

“...You have none of those,” he notes softly, and the ghost of a pain running far deeper that Bilbo could ever hope to venture flashes across the King's face.

 

“...No,” Thorin agrees, “...well, save for these.”

The beads securing the ends of his two long braids, remade many times, are old and scratched now as Thorin lets Bilbo run his fingertips across the surface, the gleam of the metal long gone.

“The line of Durin,” the dwarf breathes out almost achingly, and when Bilbo seeks out his eyes, they are so very blatantly sad that he immediately feels guilty, though he knows not what he should be apologizing for.

“Fili wore the same, more or less, as the heir,” Thorin continues, but quite incapable of withstanding the intensity of his gaze, Bilbo burrows his face against the column of his neck, pressing a tentative kiss to the always-so-surprisingly delicate skin there.

The King sighs deeply and pulls him close, kissing his hair in return.

“I would forge you rings,” he says quietly, “emerald, and rose quartz, and jasper.”

“What... what do those mean?” Bilbo asks somewhat breathlessly.

He feels Thorin smile against his hair, and one large hand splays over his back, soothing. His voice gentle and almost frightfully honest, the King says: “I should hope they mean more or less the same as your bluebells, and daisies, and...”

“Honesty,” Bilbo reminds him, his lips spreading into a smile he can't quite fight.

“Ah, yes, that.”

“You know,” Bilbo adds, gently finding his way out of Thorin's grasp so that he may find a position that is more comfortable for gazing into his eyes, “one day I will tell you what giving a ring to someone you... someone close to you, means in the Shire.”

Thorin's brows arch up.

“Please try to do so before I make a fool of myself,” he says with such genuine sincerity that Bilbo can't help but laugh.

“I will, I promise,” he replies, then, adopting a very serious grimace indeed, “...now, I believe it is time for lunch-”

The method works every single time – Thorin groans and pulls him closer as he attempts to move away, and Bilbo can't help but giggle, wondering if either of them will ever get enough of this. He sincerely hopes they won't, and as he loses himself in the warmth of the kisses Thorin showers him with, he manages to forget the part of himself that always reminds him that all good things come to an end eventually. _Not today,_ is his last thought before he proceeds to give as good as he's been getting, _definitely not today._

-

 

Esgaroth goes up in flames before they can reach it. They see the enormous body of the dragon like a thundercloud above it, and he pours his fire down in one long stripe, relentless in its precision, rising high for a spin, all but shining in the sunlight. Fili cannot but stare, all air knocked out of his lungs with the realization that they are, after all, utterly helpless against this. The boat sways and jerks as everyone around him works hard to get it moving as fast as possible, but all he sees is the fire claiming the first of the feeble wooden buildings, and already, there are soldiers jumping into the lake, not bigger than ants.

Wind picks up as the boat speeds towards the city, and Legolas is standing next to him on the nose, saying something, but he cannot, will not hear. The dragon Smaug twists high up in the air almost lazily, large wings spread wide in one moment, retracting in the other, sending his massive body plummeting down with frightening speed. He releases more flames, wings spreading out just in time to take him in a wide arch over Laketown, showering the whole of it in wanton destruction.

“We need to take the boat to the shore!” someone exclaims.

“No!” Fili screams, sudden dread at watching the city and his brother along with it burn from a distance and being unable to do anything about it overcoming him.

“Set me out,” Legolas orders, already drawing his bow, “the rest of you save yourselves.”

The glance they exchange is quick, but telling.

Frantically, Fili disposes of his weapons – it takes him but a second to realize they will be nothing but a hindrance. He spares but a second to look at his kin, and their faces are a plethora of more or less visibly horrified grimaces as they heave the oars, water splashing. He dismisses Balin's wordless plea amidst the chaos, clenching his jaw.

“There!” Legolas announces, pointing.

 

There is a dock to the side of the city miraculously left standing yet, and the elf already balances on the side of the boat.

“This will need to be quick!”

At that moment, the dragon dashes directly above them, ridiculously, dangerously low, and Fili realizes that every second they remain alive is merely sheer dumb luck. He nods to Legolas – the city is coming up quickly, he can see the flames licking the buildings, jumping from roof to roof, people running about, mouths open wide in screams of horror he can't yet hear... Smaug roars, and this time they feel it, the unnatural heat brushing at their cheeks as he sets another portion of the city ablaze – and how is there anything of Esgaroth left at all? Fili wonders with split-second clarity.

The next breath he takes tastes like smoke.

He looks from the elf at his side to the water parting almost gracefully at the sides of the boat, and it glimmers a bright orange. He feels laughably light without his blades, wind whipping the beads of his mustache against his cheeks – the shouting of the dwarves and the roar of the dragon are dulled behind the sound of his own heart, hammering in his ears. The dock is so close, a few forgotten boats swaying on the water, and he can see just how far he will need to jump... Their own boat slows down with a jerk as the dwarves force the oars against the flow of the water, and the dragon is making another spin, so far off it almost looks like he's going to go in the other direction, fly until he's not bigger than a bird on the horizon and never come back, but no, he's coming straight at them...

“ _Now!_ ” 

Legolas' stern voice makes him concentrate, and the elf leaps off the boat graciously, and Fili's legs react on their own, following, and thank Mahal for that, because he only ever really realizes what's happening when he lands on his knees in one of the punts, slipping on the wet wood.

“Come on!” the elf, already having jumped up on the dock, shouts, “hurry!”

 

Fili spares a swift look in the direction of their boat making its way to the shore, and scrambles to his feet – the building behind Legolas explodes under a direct hit of the dragon's fire then, the wharf crumbling like it's made of paper, and the last he sees of the elf is the mane of his hair swishing as he falls, the ground under his feet lost. He tries to get up, but slips and falls, and the impact is horrible.

He sees stars, his lungs constricting under the ice-cold of the water, and he flaps about frantically. His clothes are weighing him down horrendously, but the cold is worse – he makes to get to the dock, but there is nothing left of it, Legolas nowhere to be seen as well. Quite sure he would spit profanities if there were any air left in his lungs at all, he swims closer to the city, in search of somewhere not on fire yet. It is the strangest sensation – the heat of the great flames on his cheeks, and the freezing water clenching around his body, both at the same time, rendering him effectively breathless.

He sees men hurrying in what's left of the streets, jumping and yelling, but he can't shout at them to help him, as all his energy is used on forcing his arms to move at all. He remembers then, pointlessly, how Mother taught them to swim, the warmth of the natural springs in Ered Luin, the taste of the honey cakes they snacked on afterward... He takes a good gulp of the water then, and splashes about until he regains control – and sees it at last. A clear path through burning debris to one of the wooden bridges.

He gives it his all, though his arms are hurting and his lungs are not working properly anymore, eyes fixed to that one point, the little island of wood left. He almost drowns then as Smaug roars directly above him, but fortunately, the flames he releases are meant for a far-off portion of the city.

Fili needs three takes to heave himself up onto the bridge, and when he feels the wood under him, he simply collapses, curling up into a ball, coughing, breathing labored and erratic. But the cold seizes him soon enough and he scrambles to his feet, teeth beginning to chatter.

Mindlessly, blindly, he stumbles forward, avoiding the flames more by instinct than anything else. 

“Kili!” he half shouts, half coughs out, “Bard! ... _Kili!_ ”

 

Two of Dain's soldiers dash ahead of him, failing to notice him, and he forces himself to pick up tempo, run after them. Around the corner, he sees them climbing what's left of the buildings and making their way to the roofs. He's just about to follow them when Smaug attacks again, the impact of it knocking Fili off his feet and breaking the buildings around him apart effortlessly, like a giant fist with a mighty punch.

The dwarves disappear just like that, and a panic seizes Fili, the thought of his brother buried somewhere under the debris spurring him on, though the dread coursing through his veins is colder than the waters of the Great Lake. The wood under his boots crumbles and cracks, and random burning logs block his path on more than one occasion – he is just pondering whether or not to brave the roofs as well when he hears a 'Hey!”.

Spinning around furiously to see where amidst the whirlwind of fire and smoke it's coming from, the planks under his feet give way and he drops and gets stuck halfway, splintered wood jabbing into his thigh as he attempts to crawl out. Bard runs to him then, bright, bewildered eyes shining bright against his cheeks, grubby, almost black from soot. With much hardship, he helps Fili get up again, grunting: “Not exactly according to plan, eh?”

“Where's my brother?” Fili groans.

“No idea,” Bard replies curtly, not even making an attempt at cushioning the blow, and Fili's stomach lurches violently, but he merely nods.

“...What do we do?” he demands to know.

“Come on,” Bard beckons him, and as he leads him through what's left of his city, he explains further, “we've been trying to keep the dragon occupied, but so far it just looks like he's enjoying himself. I lost almost all my men. ...His stomach is literally armored with the jewels he's been laying on all these years. ...I don't think he has a weakness.”

 

“Well leave it to the dwarves and men to give up hope first!”

It's Legolas, emerging out of nowhere, ridiculously pristine amidst the destruction, even though a long, thin gash runs across his cheek.

“There is a weakness!” he shouts, “come!”

There is no time to argue and prove him wrong – they simply dash after him, nimble and surreal. Smaug's roar reverberates through the valley, and the elf yells: “There's a spot right below the joint of his left front leg! Watch for it!”

There is a moment of breathless silence, the dragon inhaling for another gust of fire, and they stand frozen as the massive body hurls across the sky above them. Fili does not watch him, though – the realization that dawns on Bard's face is what steals his focus.

“I saw it!” the man exclaims, almost exhilarated, “I saw it!”

“I've lost my quiver!” Legolas announces, “can you shoot it?!”

Fili could swear Bard grins.

“We need a diversion!” he states, “I need a clear shot, without him plummeting straight at me!”

Just then, another portion of the city collapsing and probably sinking shakes the ground below their feet.

“I'll go,” the elf says, “gather them up, make noise. You've got one shot at this!”

“Tell me something I don't know!” the man retorts, and he looks like he's enjoying himself, more than anything else.

“You go with him,” he waves at Fili, “go find your brother! We'll talk when we've slain a dragon!”

Fili opens his mouth to answer, but finds himself quite incapable of it.

“Come on!” Legolas cries, and he goes, stumbles and calls out his brother's name whenever he can, and he can't even hear his voice anymore over the flames and the dragon, and so the only thing he concentrates on are his boots stomping on the ground as he speeds through Esgaroth, which in turn speeds towards its doom.

 

Later on, he thinks he will remember the view forever – nothing he's been through so far, the trolls in the middle of the night, the stone giants at the foot of the Misty Mountains, the eagles, not even the great fire in Mirkwood... nothing holds a candle to that, to watching the dragon Smaug go down.

There is excruciatingly little of them, some men, some dwarves, beards and brows singed, holding onto their bows for dear life, and he knows not what he and Legolas say to them as they gather them up, but they all agree, wordlessly, that there is not much else to do. Esgaroth crumbles around them, and it is clear as day in their faces – at that point, the fire has burnt all hope for survival out of them, but if they're to go down, it will be alongside their city.

By some miracle, they find roofs that are not burning or turned into splinters, and climb them, the smoke stinging their eyes, the wood threatening to give way any second, but they do not care, and the image will be etched in Fili's mind forever – not more that a dozen men and dwarves shouting at a dragon a hundred times their size as if he's a dog they want to chase away, readying their bows like child's toys... And Smaug comes.

Fili can see his scales, a rich red-golden glinting in the sun above the sea of fog and smoke, and he can see the precious stones embedded in his stomach like the most expensive of armors; he can see his eyes like large orbs of liquid copper, and his teeth (“Like razors!” his mind supplies a memory), and the fire building up beyond them, and it's like staring into a forge, and when the dragon spews it, it's almost beautiful to Fili's eyes.

Something yanks at his elbow in the very last second and he crumbles to his feet, and the fire doesn't burn him at the spot, regardless of his expectations. Legolas saves his life, and the others have gone, but the elf shouts “Look!”, and Fili looks.

A small figure stands alone high up beyond the sea of flames, bow strung, and for a second, Fili thinks it's his brother, but his name lodges in his throat, because he knows that's impossible. No, it is Bard, and he looks like a tin soldier tossed into a fireplace, the flames threatening to swallow him whole and melt him down.

The dragon turns around far away to the west, and Fili catches a glimpse of the shade of Mirkwood far, far at the horizon before he comes hurtling back like a falling star, wings chopping the sky, now colored in rich hues of red and gold and purple, swishing away the stripes of white like cutting through foam, and though he cannot possibly see it, Fili knows that the tip of Bard's arrow is pointed directly at him. But the dragon does not see, does not care – he goes for a different direction entirely, and Fili's chest swells with hope.

He braces for the impact, and what is Smaug's last hailstorm of fire hits so close the roof under their feet actually sways, and only Legolas' firm grip on his shoulder saves Fili from taking a tumble to his death, but he steadies himself immediately, eyes glued to the dragon. One mighty wave of his wings, and he's almost past the city.

“Now,” Legolas breathes out.

Another flap, and he's above the lake.

“ _Now,_ ” the elf hisses urgently.

 

They can neither hear it nor see it, but Bard shoots then, and something gleams in the sky, past the cinders and smoke, and the great lizard's body _jerks,_ and Legolas and Fili punch out a gasp in unison – Smaug attempts one more flap, his roar blood-curdling, both pained and furious, but he hurls over his left shoulder, crumbling and curling up, and falls almost gracefully. The impact is unlike anything Fili's ever seen – masses of steam rise immediately, the splash loud like two mountains slapping together, and their vision is utterly distorted by white.

He wants to wait for it to disperse, see with his own eyes that the dragon is no more, but Legolas tugs at his shirt, reminding him that the flames, unlike Smaug, have not been extinguished.

“It's all falling apart!” the elf exclaims, and Fili hears it – without the dragon's roar, and the wind wafted by his wings, all that is left is the ominous, steady hum of the fire and the hissing of the waters of the Great Lake slowly enveloping around the furnace of the lizard's body and cooling it down.

The smell reminds Fili of the greatest forges, like a thousand new blades being dunked in water at the same time – it's metallic, earthly, heavy, and suffocating.

“We must find my brother!” he shouts, but there are tense lines around the elf's eyes as he searches for a safe route.

“We must get out of here,” he retorts, “ _now._ ”

He beckons Fili, and together, they make their way to the edge of the roof, where they came from, unsteady and threatened by flames at every turn – they find their escape route burned down, and as Fili follows Legolas to the other side of the roof, hurried, frantic, he thinks it would be quite ridiculous to die like this, right now, after everything. It might just be his mind fogging with all the smoke, but he can't help but find the idea utterly, desperately hilarious.

“We're going to have to jump!” the elf shouts, “into the water!”

“Brilliant!” Fili cries, and his heart skips a beat, because Legolas doesn't hesitate and plunges forward right there and then, disappearing into the smoke, the splash of water dull and far too quiet, seemingly incredibly far away.

“Come on!” he hears his yelling then, faintly, “jump!”

He makes his way to the very edge of the roof, and every fiber of his being protests at the sight of the water – the flames have all but scorched his clothes dry, and the idea of reliving the shock of the cold is an unpleasant ordeal.

“Move it!” Legolas spurs him on.

He takes a deep breath, but regrets it immediately, because it only serves to fill his lungs with smoke – the acrid taste of it seals the deal, and he jumps, plunges forward utterly gracelessly.

 

He hears his name being called, not by Legolas, but by a far more familiar voice, in the split second before he hits the surface of the water, and in the shock of it, he forgets to close his eyes and brace himself, and thus he emerges to the surface splashing and coughing.

“Kili!” he cries, “I heard him! I must get him!”

“No!” Legolas counters, “the city will sink in no time! It's certain death!”

But Fili ignores him and swims towards the debris. It doesn't occur to him right away, but he soon realizes the water is warmer – the body of the dragon must be emitting such great amounts of heat that it changes the temperature of the whole lake, and he would find it amazing if he had the time.

“Kili!” he shouts at the top of his lungs, though his throat is sore from all the smoke he's inhaled, and his head is spinning violently, “ _Kili!_ Where are you?!”

He searches desperately for a way to climb back to the ground, but sees that there is no ground left – every inch of Esgaroth seems to be on fire now, buildings falling apart, enormous beams dropping from the roofs and breaking the floors apart. It's as if the whole city is folding in on itself, and Fili realizes it will burn until there's nothing left of it, until the lake swallows it just like it did the dragon.

“Kili!” he cries, desperately now, swimming in a wide arch around the city, and he catches a glimpse of the far bank of the lake, the one he will need to make it to if he wants to survive – a number of tiny figures are standing there, watching, and maybe Kili's one of them, perhaps he was only dreaming hearing his voice...

His eyes are very definitely cheating him at that point, but he sees something, someone, dash amidst the fire, and a panic coupled with a blind determination seizes him, and he swims in quick, long strokes closer to the destruction, shouting his brother's name over and over again, and he hears what is probably the elf begging him to turn back, but he ignores him and swims and swims until the city is _above_ him, buildings threatening to fold over him, steaming planks from the walkways blocking his path.

“Kili!” he shouts, then, coughing as he encounters something below him that the fabric of his trousers catches on, and jerks him aback, forcing another generous gulp of water down his throat, “Kili!”

He tries his damnedest not to panic as he spins in the water to look behind, and sees that he's managed to delve much further than he thought, nothing but fire, and smoke, and the remnants of the city in his path no matter where he chooses to turn.

“Kili!” he yells one last time, slowly beginning to admit to himself his own folly.

 

“Fili!”

It's faint, almost non-existent, but it's there, and Fili splashes about as he swivels to see where it's coming from.

“Kili! Kili, I'm here!”

“ _Fili!_ ”

“Over here!”

The sight of his brother tumbling from around a corner, bedraggled and bewildered, dismisses all else – for a split second, there is no fire, no danger, simply Kili's eyes lighting up in his dirty face as he sees him.

“Come – come on!” Fili chokes, “into the water! We need to get out of here!”

And Kili comes, feet picking up tempo as he runs to take the leap, and amidst the utter chaos, Fili sees that he is grinning, and no heat is stronger than that which spreads in his chest at the sight.

“Come on!” he beckons him, stronger, kicking water, his arms reaching out to him, and it takes him too long to notice – the look in Kili's eyes slowly transforms from all but exhilarated to outright terrified, and he slows down, tumbles, and comes to a halt, focused on something behind Fili.

“ _Move!_ ” he cries, but Fili sees his mouth opening slowly, and follows the line of his sight instead, turning around.

For a moment, he thinks it's night, that the sky has darkened, but then he realizes – one of the buildings is crumbling, falling down directly at him, and it all happens ridiculously slowly. He tries to jerk and scramble away, but suddenly, there is debris everywhere and he can't move his arms or legs properly, and he hears his name in his brother's screaming, and he swivels around to catch one last glimpse of Kili out of some strange urge, and then he's buried, and everything is first stinging and strangely sweet as something hits the back of his head and his nose and mouth fill with water; then warm as everything around him sizzles, the bubbles brushing at his skin almost gently...

Then black.

-

 

They wake to the smell of smoke one morning. It is faint, almost nonexistent, when Bilbo opens the window to let fresh air into the living room to chase away the heavy lingering warmth of last night's... escapades, and it takes them some time to discern what is going on – it is only after staring out onto the meadows for hours, and upon realizing that the unnatural white cloud on the horizon isn't dispersing one bit, that they march out of the building and past the orchards and the mill to get a better look. They are, however, none the wiser – the smell persists, but nothing is on fire anywhere nearby, and the horizon is veiled, melding with the crisp white duvet of snow, reaching as far as they can see.

But Thorin grows restless, Bilbo can see it in his eyes, focused on where the peak of the Lonely Mountain should be peeking out amidst the clouds – later, smoking their pipes side by side on the veranda, their fingers entwined in a gesture that would prove itself far too lovesick were there but one more pair of eyes to see, the King's thumb draws circles on the back of Bilbo's hand, but his mind is elsewhere.

“You're thinking perhaps the dragon was slain,” Bilbo ventures softly, and tense lines appear around Thorin's eyes before they focus at him.

“You're thinking the Lonely Mountain might be safe to enter.”

“...Yes,” Thorin sighs tentatively, “but I... consider myself a fool for harboring such hopes.”

“Oh, now...” Bilbo hums, “I do believe that if anyone deserves a stroke of luck, it's you.”

Thorin's grip tightens marginally, and there is a genuine tenderness in his soft smile; one that Bilbo doesn't think he will ever get used to.

“I've had my share of luck,” the King mumbles, his hand heavy and hot against the hobbit's thigh now.

Bilbo blushes despite the puffs of freezing air he exhales.

“Perhaps the fates don't agree,” he supplies, and Thorin's smile broadens.

“...Perhaps,” he says, “but I cannot for the life of me fathom who would manage to lure the dragon away from his hoard, much less slay him...-”

“Well then,” Bilbo interrupts him, wood creaking as he gets up off his side of their bench and moves to push Thorin back, climbing into his lap, “we will just have to go and find out. I'm certain the keeper will be here any day. ...Not that I find the wait all that terrible, mind you.”

 

Thorin keeps on smiling, which Bilbo always considers his greatest achievement, as his hands grab his hips to steady him.

“Neither do I,” he breathes out, and their lips meet for a kiss.

Somehow, it tastes doubly delicious in the cold, Bilbo finds, and his arms snake around the dwarf's neck, legs straddling his sides. Thorin's eyebrows arch up almost comically when he grinds his hips, and a soft gasp escapes him through the second kiss they share.

“Would you like to... I mean...”

His eyes widen some more as Bilbo reaches in between them, fingers searching for the string of his trousers, and the hobbit can't help but grin mischievously.

“... _Here?_ ” Thorin inquires, somewhat breathlessly, “it's rather cold, don't you think?”

“Well then,” Bilbo remarks, his palm finally cupping what he's been looking for, and revels in the dry gulp that stifles whatever the King was going to add, “I say we must make special effort to keep warm.”

And as the cold between them and around them begins to dissolve, chased away by their panting and quickening movements, Bilbo can't but scrutinize Thorin's eyes, and is pleased to find that at least for now, he's successfully managed to tear them away from the horizon and its fickle promises.

 

The man Matylda told them about arrives the very next day – a bit early for Bilbo's liking, but they _have_ been keeping the house ready for their departure, the food they will need packed away neatly, and so there is nothing to it, really. They plan their journey for a morning in two days' time, and it's done, like that, and it seems almost surprisingly easy.

Bark is a very old man, beard and hair snow white, and he arrives on foot with nothing but a cane, a small rucksack and a somewhat overbearing dog, and Bilbo fears that if they do not sit him down and feed him something warm soon, he will simply crumble before their eyes. Sipping on the steaming broth, he listens to their account of everything that happened at Harrow Mill, while his dog chews on an old bone Bilbo had fished out of somewhere.

“You know, I used to tell her all the time,” the man offers, “'you're too brave for your own good', I'd tell her. Not that she ever minded me, you know. When she found that fella, he seemed... well, nice enough. As nice as someone with a face like that can be, I suppose. I'm guessing she got quite a great deal more than she'd bargained for, poor soul. Where did you say she's off to?”

“Minas Tirith,” Bilbo says, “then... who knows. ...Excuse me, I forget – how do you two know each other?”

“Oh, I took her off the streets in Osgiliath, way back when,” he replies, his voice soft with the fond memories he summons, “offered her a job, a roof over her head. I think I liked her spark. And let me tell you, the looks on people's faces when they got served by a hobbit! Oh, those were good times. Very good times indeed.”

It occurs to Bilbo, as they listen to Bark spin more stories, all tinted with the nostalgia of an old man, but no less interesting for it, that this might be their last peaceful evening in a long time. And that he's all but forgotten all the dangers, all the fear and the discomfort out there in the world, all those memories soothed down and softened by the touches and the presence of Thorin, paling in comparison to these past few days, filled with a pleasant tranquility Bilbo once thought he'd never encounter anywhere else but the Shire. The Shire... his home is, much like all the places Bark speaks of, just a memory now, amiable and full of joy, but a memory nonetheless.

He gazes into the eyes of the King, the fire crackling in the hearth making them glimmer, and knows then that wherever those will go, he will follow. It's as simple as that – the future is unclear, and soon, they will be on the road again, but as long as he finds himself at Thorin's side, Bilbo thinks he will be capable of facing any discomfort, any danger. 

Of course, he'd never dare wording any of this out, and so he merely tries to press it to the King's lips along with the kisses – their touches are tender, gentle, almost languid that night, as they are both very aware of the new presence in the house. The need to keep quiet slows down their movements and softens their moans, their kisses deep and long, and Bilbo holds Thorin's head to his chest as the King climaxes, coming himself later on with his face pressed into a pillow, Thorin's torso weighing him down almost possessively, and it isn't any less intense than the other times – they fall asleep easily, thoroughly sated, and wake up slowly, limbs tangled together, warm, safe and comfortable.

 

The day is spent packing and preparing, explaining to Bark everything he needs to know about the house to last the winter, and, though neither of them will admit it, saying wordless goodbyes to Harrow Mill. Bilbo goes into what used to be his room (they have been sleeping in Thorin's) with an armful of fresh linen, and finds himself sitting down at the bed with one of the books he used to read. He tucks the small volume of _My Life With the Dwarves_ by Fillibald Took into his backpack, too, smiling when he thinks of what the author might say about where his book is going to travel.

He finds Thorin playing the small harp Ludo and Matylda had found for him, sitting in the kitchen, and persuades him to take it with as well. Together, they bolt the doors of the barn thoroughly, and check every nook and cranny, readjusting the hay stuffing the holes in the roof of the hen house... At last, quite without aim, they wander out of the gate in the late afternoon, and stand on top of the hill over Mirkwood for a short while, utterly silent, eyes glazing over the dark vastness, and though most of the memories that particular spot entices have some horror in them, Bilbo anticipates he will treasure them with fondness nevertheless.

He looks up into Thorin's eyes and is met with a smile – wordlessly, he takes the King's hand and leads him away, and if this really is the last moment of peace they ever have for themselves, then he thinks he will take it.

 

They leave very early the next day, because there is virtually nothing left to work on at the house – Bark's dog runs along with them far into the meadows, dashing in large circles around them, yelping at nothing, obviously happy enough just to get some fresh air, until finally, even he returns to his master. Turning back one last time, all they see of Harrow Mill anymore is the roof, a thin stripe of smoke rising high, and Bilbo forces himself to smile despite the unease. They do grow quiet then, save for the snow cracking under their feet and the huffs of breath – and Bilbo isn't sure about Thorin, but he has certainly lost some of his endurance, and his backpack is definitely heavier than he remembers it.

The land that stretches before them is ridged with hills not unlike the Shire, and the steady, consistent white of it is slightly unnerving. Thorin thinks that they should reach Esgaroth in about three days' time, and Bilbo doesn't argue, simply marches along. It occurs to him that they are utterly alone in the countryside – no sign of rabbits, or ravens, or any other animals really. It's disconcerting when he spends too much time thinking about it, and so he chats away about the silliest things, grateful that Thorin simply lets him.

They do see birds later on that day, but not entirely in a way they'd expect – at first, they think it's a thundercloud gathering on the horizon, and it takes them a whole hour of walking and narrowing their eyes to agree that it's just birds, countless flocks all traveling and circling around one spot – the peak of the Lonely Mountain, or somewhere near it. The King watches with furrowed brows as a small flock travels back towards where they came from, to Mirkwood, and he spins more or less grim theories the rest of the day.

He finds them a safe spot for the night in a ravine, a dry, shallow cave, and Bilbo huddles very close to him, because the fire is rather small, as there might still be dangers waiting for them somewhere out there. Thorin is much less affected by the cold, and he lends his almost unnatural body heat to Bilbo, enveloping him in a bear hug, and the heavy woolen blankets they took from Harrow Mill serve their purpose fully that night. Still, Bilbo drifts in and out of sleep, his hearing cheating him. He is often reminded of the few nights they spent in Mirkwood like this, but is reassured those are long gone every time he shivers and Thorin's arms bring him even closer, and infinitely relieved when he nuzzles his all but frozen nose into the warmth of his overcoat in the morning and in turn receives a kiss in his hair, something that he would have only dreamt of all that time ago.

 

They munch on breakfast on the road, and soon, Bilbo announces puffs of smoke beyond a couple of hills rather joyfully, hoping for at least a shred of civilization, but Thorin stops abruptly, tension apparent in his voice when he notes: “It's too soon.”

“Too soon... too soon for what?” the hobbit stutters, hastily finishing his cake.

“We should not encounter any settlements before midday,” the dwarf says, “that is no chimney smoke over there. Stay here.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Bilbo pfft's, brushing the crumbs off his fingers and drawing Sting – the scowl on Thorin's face doesn't escape him, but he merely raises his eyebrows, and the King sighs and beckons him on.

They make their way closer as carefully as possible, as quiet as they can be with snow crunching under their feet, and when they climb the small hill behind which the smoke is rising from, Bilbo's stomach lurches, and Thorin curses under his breath.

What must have been a campfire not unlike theirs is kicked apart, coals scattered on the snow, tinted red with the blood of a warg and an orc slain in the middle of it. Dark gashes suggest that the fight was not an easy one, and Bilbo gulps nervously as Thorin makes his way downhill to investigate. He's suddenly very aware that they are utterly alone in this vast area of land, and if they were to encounter whatever walked out of this particular fight, no one would come help them. 

“Still warm,” Thorin announces sternly, “come on. We should move on.”

Their trek retains none of yesterday's leisurely nature, as they both keep their eyes and ears peeled for but a sign of anything unusual. They travel faster and stop for nothing, any odd sound spurring them on.

“There,” Thorin announces just as Bilbo is pondering asking him to stop to at least pull out one more honey cake for a pauper's lunch.

More smoke, this time stronger, steadier. The King stops and merely gazes at it for the longest time, evaluating, until the cold begins getting to Bilbo and he starts fidgeting uneasily to keep himself warm.

“Two options,” Thorin tells him tensely, “we either avoid it and keep walking, or we go see what's going on, and risk a fight with whoever took care of the two we saw earlier.”

Bilbo shrugs.

“If we move on, we leave... _that_ , behind us,” he supplies simply.

“...True,” Thorin sighs.

“I don't think I particularly fancy the feeling of being followed.”

“...Alright,” the King decides, “I'll go, you _stay here._ This time seriously. If I run into trouble... well, I expect you will know.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to add something, but then he remembers with a jolt. Thorin's eyes widen at the sight of the ring he pulls out of his pocket.

“Excellent,” he exhales, “give it to me.”

“No.”

 

The dwarf's eyebrows arch up, and Bilbo realizes he took an involuntary step backward, and... where did that come from again?

“I mean... well, no offense,” he babbles, “but with those horrendous boots, you're not exactly lightweight _or_ sneaky. Let _me_ go.”

Thorin scrutinizes him silently for a moment, something incomprehensible in his piercing look, but then he sighs.

“Very well,” he declares, “but go over there, take a look and come back. _Be careful._ ”

Bilbo grants him a grin and slips the ring on, and Thorin exhales deeply, troubled and worried – the hobbit can't quite help it then, he trots up to him and, standing up on his tiptoes, plants a kiss on his lips, enticing a surprised gasp. He squeezes the dwarf's hand briefly, and with a quiet 'I'll be right back', he makes his way to the mysterious stripe of smoke.

He prides himself on being almost utterly silent, and is almost curious by the time he gets to the top of the small ridge – he hears a fire crackling, and someone shuffling about, and he takes a deep breath, closing the distance in few short steps. Below him is an almost cozy looking patch of dry ground, overshadowed by a couple of thin, bare trees, and smoke rises in puffs from a small fire, by which... Bilbo can't help the gasp that escapes him.

It's Ludo, and he is an absolutely horrible sight – his heavy leather coat rests on the ground, and he's tending to a nasty gash on his arm. He seems to be covered in blood, old and new, and dirt and grime from head to toe, his hair and beard disheveled, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks a great deal gaunter than Bilbo remembers. His formidable axe lies by a sad little backpack, and it occurs to the hobbit, as he's crouching there atop the hill, that despite everything, they never said their goodbyes to the man, never even saw him leave. Thorin would probably frown and scoff at such folly... oh, right, Thorin.

Bilbo takes some time to think about his next steps – they definitely didn't part friends with Ludo, and he certainly looks spent, but no less dangerous for it. At last, he gets up, only to see that Thorin is already making his way over, slowly, Orcrist in a tight grip. Bilbo waves his arms at him before he realizes he has the ring on, but at the same time, Ludo huffs a gruff 'Huh?', and Bilbo swivels to look at him and slips on the snow, and comes tumbling down right into the middle of the man's little campsite.

Ludo reaches for his axe and jumps to his feet, all in a frighteningly short span of time, assuming a defensive stance, his eyes scanning the surroundings. Bilbo groans, half in pain, half in despair at his own uselessness, but the man all but plunges in his direction, and he yelps, scrambling to his feet.

“It's me!” he exclaims, pulling off the ring “it's me, it's Bilbo!”

 

For a split second, it looks almost as if Ludo doesn't recognize him, an almost feral glint in his eyes, but then his brows furrow, and he takes a step back, and what's most important to the hobbit, lowers his axe.

“...Bilbo?” he says, “what on earth are you doing here?”

The hobbit chuckles nervously, brushing snow off himself before it can soak into his clothes, sheathing Sting, sliding the ring safely back into his pocket, his eyes still glued to Ludo's weapon. The man notices, and lays it on the ground.

“I'm not gonna hurt ya,” he states simply, “...but why are you here?”

“Oh, it's... me and Thorin are on our way to Esgaroth, actually, and...-”

“Bilbo!”

The dwarf comes then, all but sprinting into the valley, brandishing his sword, and something like a furious growl escapes him when he lays eyes on Ludo, and he stands before Bilbo protectively, Orcrist at the ready.

“...Thorin, it's fine, really, I think...” Bilbo tries to calm him down, utterly in vain.

“What are you doing here?” the King demands sternly, “speak, or I swear I will end you!”

“Thorin, _please..._ ”

“Ach, no, it's fine,” Ludo says calmly, raising his hands in a submissive gesture, “you have every right to be angry... But I was actually hopin' to run into ya. Y' need to hear me out. ...Then you can do with me as you please.”

Bilbo sighs in dismay while Thorin scoffs.

“I've no interest in listening to you,” he all but spits, “for all I know, everything you say will be nothing but lies.”

“Yes,” Ludo replies simply, “I'm just going to say my part, an' leave it up to you to decide if it's true or not.”

Thorin's blade doesn't move an inch, and Bilbo frowns exasperatedly, and goes to lay his hand on the dwarf's arm – it is unnaturally tense under his touch, and Thorin clenches his jaw, his eyes flickering to Bilbo for a fleeting moment.

“Let's hear him out,” the hobbit says, and when he catches Thorin's gaze dashing to the axe, he adds, “I'm sure we can come to some sort of agreement. ...Can I take that away?”

Unmoving, Ludo nods, and despite the dwarf's rising protest, Bilbo goes and picks up the man's heavy axe, taking it back to Thorin's side.

“He means no harm, I'm sure,” he tells Thorin almost strictly, looking him straight in the eye until his gaze peels off Ludo and meets his look, and he holds it until at last, the King exhales sharply and lowers his sword.

“Speak quickly,” he orders sternly, and Bilbo shudders at his side, wondering how things got so tangled so fast.

 

Ludo nods solemnly.

“I traveled north,” he says, “met more and more random orcs and goblin packs the closer I got to the Grey Mountains. They're buildin' an army there.”

If Thorin is impacted by that in any way, he doesn't let it show.

“Continue.”

“I've only ever seen orcs preparin' for battle once before, an' I didn't think there could be anythin' more horrifyin', but... you know, they say a great evil has awoken when no one was lookin'. I listened to them a bit, before I got outta there – they're sayin' a war unlike any other is comin'. That, and your name.”

This time, Thorin does react, his brows furrowing menacingly.

“Who does?” he growls.

“Azog's soldiers,” Ludo offers, “they're going to march on the Lonely Mountain. Still, he's bent on findin' ya.”

“Thorin...” Bilbo squeaks, but the dwarf dismisses him, taking a step closer towards the man.

“Why are you here then?” he demands dryly, “why didn't you stay with Azog in his _army,_ since you'd been getting on so well? ...Or did he send you to find and dispose of me? Is that why you were hoping to 'run into us'?!”

He all but draws his sword again, and Bilbo doesn't try to stop him again, because he rightly anticipates it would be somewhat counterproductive. Instead, he lets out a pained sigh at the definitive loss of what he now worries was nothing but an artificial peace back at Harrow Mill – _this,_ not three warm meals a day and nights spent doing everything but sleeping, will be their day-to-day reality now, he reminds himself. And how he could ever have hoped for anything else is beyond him. Oh, joy.

“...I came to warn ya,” Ludo says almost timidly in the face of Thorin's building rage, “I turned back as soon as I got an idea of what was goin' on, and I traveled south as fast as I could, killed a lot of orc patrols already makin' their way to the first villages. I thought I would go directly for the Mill, but then it... it didn't seem like a good idea. So I stuck by the Great Road, just... cleanin' it up, hopin' I'd see you one day, and if not, I'd make my way to Esgaroth to warn them, then Minas Tirith, probably...”

“...You killed that warg and orc some way back, right?” Bilbo peeps, and the man nods.

“Aye. There is a village not half a day's journey from here, utterly defenseless. An' more closer to Laketown.”

“The dragon,” Thorin utters curtly, “has he been slain?”

Ludo shakes his head.

“No clue. I smelled smoke, I saw all them birds flyin' this way or that... Who knows what it means.”

Thorin huffs an exasperated groan, shoulders falling, and begins pacing aimlessly. Ludo gets up slowly, and Bilbo offers a highly nervous smile.

“This war...” he ventures, “what is it for, I mean...?”

Ludo shrugs.

“Who knows. But the orcs have never been so lively, not even when I...”

Bilbo waves him off, not needing to hear more, and instead focuses on Thorin, who stops and catches his gaze.

“We must go to Esgaroth,” he declares, and Bilbo nods with a sigh.

“There's an inn in the first village you'll come across,” Ludo offers, “sleep there. Don't travel past sunset today.”

“...You could come with us...?” Bilbo peeps, even though he knows exactly how dismissive Thorin will be of the idea.

“Ah, no, I don't think so,” Ludo says, and the look they exchange with Thorin is somewhat kindly apologetic on his side, firm and unforgiving on the dwarf's, “I'll go on ahead. You might see me tomorrow though, I hope y' won't mind horribly. I think we'll meet in Esgaroth, if not before.”

Thorin dismisses him with an incomprehensible grumble, and beckons Bilbo to set out. As they walk away from the man, the hobbit can't help but turn to look back at him a couple of times despite the King's irritation – he stands by his tiny fire, watching them, growing smaller and smaller the further they go, and a strange sadness seizes Bilbo. He realizes he could have at least told him his wife was alright, even though Thorin would probably say he didn't deserve to know.

More importantly though, Bilbo Baggins begins to realize that he was a fool to ever think this journey would at one point exhaust its supply of surprises and unexpected turns.

-

 

His head throbs like it's about to burst apart when he wakes, and there is far too much light for his liking. His eyes flicker open slowly, reluctantly, a laborious cough gathering in his chest. He tastes smoke and remembers immediately, jolting upright, which brings forth a coughing fit, that, despite its painfulness, is rather relieving, ridding his lungs of the last remnants of whatever horrible things he inhaled.

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he assesses his surroundings – he's in a tent, probably one of Dain's, and the murmur from the outside is very reassuring. Still... He makes to get off the bed and cries out – his torso and right leg are heavily bandaged, and he begins to feel seemingly every sore muscle at once. He realizes he has absolutely no idea what happened, how he survived, and most importantly, where his brother is...

“Lie back down, laddie!”

That's Oin, marching into the tent with an armful of what looks like more bandages.

“Oin!' Fili cries, “where is Kili?”

“He's fine, he's alright,” Oin reassures him, and Fili sinks back onto the bed, relief washing over him.

“Aye, you were both lucky,” the old dwarf continues, setting down his load and searching for something in a medical kit by the foot of the bed, “though he's got a nasty cold, he does. Him and that elf swam with you all the way from the city to the shore. Quite a spectacle. Here. Drink.”

Fili accepts the pitcher of water gratefully, taking long, thirsty gulps that trickle down his chin and wash away the foul taste on his tongue successfully and, hopefully, for good.

“...The dragon?” he exhales raggedly, “is he done for?”

Oin smiles fondly.

“Do you think we'd be sitting here if he weren't?” he replies, “aye, he's over, lying on the bottom of that lake. Can't see one scale of him anymore, it's as if he never was.”

Fili inhales deeply, and the air is cold and fresh, a remedy for his sore throat.

“I suppose the city...?”

“Burnt to a cinder,” Oin nods solemnly, “what's left of the men are here with us now.”

“Bard is alive?”

“Aye.”

“...Could you bring Kili now, please?” Fili sighs weakly, eyes closing again, his whole body feeling too heavy to lift but a finger.

“Oh, I'm afraid he's busy now,” Oin says, “him and Balin are speaking in your name with the men and the elves. And Dain. Negotiating.”

His eyes flutter open again.

“What? Why? What is there to negotiate about?”

Oin chuckles.

“Trust me, we didn't think there would be anything,” he supplies, “we wanted to go straight to the Lonely Mountain as soon as you woke up.”

“...But?”

“Ah, Dain and that Master are at it again. They've been arguing all day. ...Oh, and the Elvenking is coming, apparently. Right on time, when all the hard work's been done.”

“I don't understand,” Fili lifts himself up on his elbow, “what's the problem? And _why_ is the Elvenking coming now? What's going on?”

Oin shrugs, preparing some sort of salve in a bowl in his lap.

“Don't ask me. You'll have to see for yourself, _after_ you've gotten some more sleep in you.”

“I'm going now,” Fili groans, heaving himself up, sliding his legs off the bed carefully.

“I'd like to see you try,” Oin chuckles, pointing to his thigh, “that's awfully bruised.”

“Oin,” Fili says sternly, his head suddenly very clear, the need to be brought up to speed and, above all, see his brother, pumping fresh blood through his veins, “get me a cane.”

 

It's freezing outside, and Fili accepts a heavy coat from Oin, if somewhat begrudgingly. Dain's camp is still being erected around them, in the same field it stood once before, dwarves and men helping each other, hurrying this way or that as Fili follows Oin. The old dwarf was right – his leg throbs almost unbearably whenever he puts even a sliver of weight on it, Oin remarking 'I don't remember the last time I spent two hours sewing someone up, let me tell you, lad', and even though the pain makes Fili sick to his stomach, he presses on with stern determination.

Dain's tent is literally packed with people – most of the company are there, surrounding a table where Balin with Kili, Legolas with Tauriel, Bard, and Dain himself sit over maps and parchments, seemingly speaking all at once. But Fili doesn't care for their words in the least – his eyes are glued to Kili the second he walks inside. His brother's face is bruised and his arm is in a sling, but there is nothing but calm resolve in his eyes as he's discussing something with Balin and the elves, his features so sharp and handsome Fili feels his chest physically constricting – he opens his mouth to say something, to announce himself, but that's when the others notice him and he is flung into a whirlwind of cheers and greetings and pats on the back, and he tries his best to respond in kind, but also make his way to the table.

Kili raises his head wordlessly when Fili stands before him, and his expression is unreadable at first, but then a smile quirks his lips, slowly, like the sun rising from behind a mountain and flooding a valley in golden light and warmth, and Fili's knees almost give way right there and then, and he finds he's grinning back inadvertently, possibly looking quite silly.

“...Well,” he coughs, leaning on the table, forcing himself to turn his attention to someone, anyone else than Kili, “what did I miss?”

 

...A lot, it turns out. In little more than a day, Bard has already managed to anger Dain for 'not being grateful enough', and the warlord in turn was infuriated when the elves came with news from Mirkwood – the Elvenking had somehow learnt of the dragon's fall seemingly the second it happened, and a messenger came shortly afterward with the announcement of him setting out with an army, officially to assist the men in rebuilding the city. But of course Dain Ironfoot took it as an invitation to an all-out war and managed to mortally insult Bard, who _dared_ remind him of the deal he'd struck with Fili (which of course Dain knew nothing about). Fili senses there is too much suspicion and betrayed pride currently hanging in the air, but his interests are the ones he's prepared to defend.

“Alright, listen,” he declares when everyone's ceased complaining and threatening each other, “here is what _I'm_ going to do – I'm going to gather my company, and we're going to make way for Erebor. Dain, I am _allowing you_ to be there with us when we come in, but _only if_ you continue to offer shelter to the humans. Bard,” he raises his voice to quell the warlord's vocal protests, “surely you understand that once I've settled inside the Lonely Mountain, my first interest will lie in honoring our deal – my company will help you as best we can in rebuilding Dale, and in due time, you will be allowed inside the Mountain, and we will talk of a reward, as well as reclaiming the part of the hoard that is rightfully yours as heir of Girion.”

“...And what of the Elvenking?” the man reminds him almost kindly.

Fili's throat is dry from his little speech, and his head is beginning to throb, but he has a clear idea of what he wants to achieve today, and as long as he holds onto that, he suspects he will be fine. He dares not look in his brother's direction, as Kili stands close by his side now – even though he's itching for a moment to spend with him in private, he forces himself to accept that the time for that will come later.

“I have no idea what he wants,” he admits, “but I do know that I'd very much like to have Erebor's stone below my feet when I speak with him. ...Can anyone tell me where Gandalf is?”

“He vanished right after we dragged you to the shore,” Legolas responds, “he said he'd be back soon, but where he went, we don't know.”

Fili notices the glance Kili and the elves exchange, but files that for later investigation as well.

“Very well,” he says, “now, Dain – I need your help. I can't presume to know what we'll find inside the mountain, but I think it's safe to say that we will need every helping hand we can get, be it inside Erebor, or outside, assisting the men. ...Will you come with us?”

“ _Without_ declaring a war on the elves,” Kili next to him grunts quietly, and Dain frowns menacingly, while Fili fights of a snigger.

The old dwarf leans back in his chair, scrutinizing him with a piercing look, but Fili knows far too well it's merely for effect, and has not intention of budging but an inch.

“I do wish your uncle was here,” Dain groans, “I'm sure he wouldn't think twice about teaching the elves their place.”

Kili and Tauriel scoff in unison, while Balin and Legolas roll their eyes discreetly, but Fili has stopped playing. 

“ _My uncle_ isn't here anymore,” he states strictly, stepping forward, “and because I'm not him by a long shot, I will make this _very simple_ for you – you will either be there by my side when we reclaim a long-lost kingdom and rekindle its glory, or you will continue sitting at the foot of it, stewing in your stale need for petty revenge. It's entirely your choice.”

 

Perhaps it's the pain he's in, sweat breaking on his brow from just those few steps he had to take, or perhaps something has snapped in his head when an actual building fell down on him, but Fili feels different – stronger. He notices Balin's almost imperceptible, approving nod, and inhales deeply, still glaring at Dain. The warlord leans back in his chair and narrows his eyes, looking around for support, but the tent is dead silent. At last, his eyebrows arch up and he smirks, shaking his head.

“Well well,” he grumbles, “you might not be Thorin, but you certainly share his stubbornness. ...I will come with you, of course, and the men-” a sharp look in Bard's direction, who merely smiles coldly, “will be accommodated. Now, can we please declare this meeting adjourned? I have matters to attend to. ...We'll speak later.”

Slowly, the crowd disperses, and after exchanging a couple of words with Bard, Fili and Balin summon the company, ordering them to pack up and be ready.

“...We will need to keep a close eye on Dain,” Balin says grimly when everyone else has gone their way, “he is our kin, but that has never held much significance for him, I'm afraid.”

“Beyond the royal rights, of course,” Fili snickers, but Balin merely sighs, frowning, and so he adds, “don't worry. Erebor will have a rightful ruler once again, I shall see to that.”

“...You're the only one left, lad,” the old dwarf replies almost sadly, and somehow, Fili feels himself smiling as he squeezes Balin's shoulder briefly.

“Yes, I know,” he states calmly, and receives a smile with a healthy dose of relief and, perhaps, pride, in response.

Balin wants to add some more, but Legolas steps in, and Fili sees that Kili and Tauriel are with him. Balin says nothing, simply nods at Fili encouragingly and leaves them. Fili drapes the coat closer around his shoulders.

“I sense you have something to tell me, but I really need to sit down first,” he grunts, and to his surprise (mixed strongly with joy, though) Kili hurries to help him, gripping his arm as he sinks painfully onto the large log that serves as a bench by the nearest fire, sitting down next to him as the elves stand closer.

“...Well?” Fili beckons them, resisting the urge to give into the heat of Kili's body next to him and lay his head on his shoulder.

“Gandalf went north, to the Grey Mountains,” Legolas says, looking infinitely more troubled than Fili had expected him to be.

“...Why?”

“The orcs are amassing there,” Tauriel states simply, “along with the goblins from the Misty Mountains. We received a note from him this morning.”

“...Why?” Fili can't but repeat, weakly now.

“How much did Gandalf tell you about what he saw in Dol Guldur?” Legolas continues, “...it seems that a greater evil is finding its way into the world. The tombs of the nine Ringwraiths were found empty, and there is talk of a dark entity residing in the north...”

“That's why King Thranduil is on his way,” Tauriel adds, “he fears a war is coming.”

 

Fili can't help but let a ragged sigh escape him.

“How wonderful,” he all but winces.

“We should go to Erebor, the sooner the better,” Kili says gently, “the mountain is a much better foothold than a scorched city of men, I think.”

“That would be wise,” Legolas nods, “my father will very definitely want to speak with you.”

“After he's done with us,” Tauriel remarks innocently, gracefully ignoring Legolas' scowl, “I suggest you make yourselves comfortable there – who knows what's coming. ...Good luck. We'll speak later.”

And with that, they leave them, and Fili feels a sudden onset of helplessness, and so he seeks assurance in his brother's face.

“...What happened to you?” he points to his injured arm, and Kili's eyebrows arch up.

“Most of the building that happened to you,” he replies with a fleeting grin.

Fili takes a breath to say more, but words fail him – he wants more than anything to reach out and brush his fingers gently over Kili's cheeks, scraped and bruised, but he resists.

“...Thank you,” he manages to mutter eventually.

“You were the one who came for me,” his brother offers, and he's saying it kindly enough, but still, something is missing – Kili's features are pleasant, but cool; gentle, but devoid of any stronger emotion.

Fili fears losing the ground under his feet again, and so he states outright: “I was so worried. ...I'm sorry I doubted you, but you're alive, and I'm alive, and... well, the mountain is waiting for us, and that's all that matters, I mean...”

“You're right,” Kili interrupts him, patting his shoulder, and still his voice and his smile alike are somewhat hollow, Fili's gaze following him almost desperately as he stands up, “Erebor is all that matters. I'll go see how everyone's getting along, and we'll set out at first light tomorrow, agreed?”

Fili merely gapes at him, and there is not a sliver of his previous determination and surety left within him, he realizes – instead, it's all been replaced by a strange sort of fear, like something is slipping through his fingers, something he can't even see, much less grasp.

“I...” he starts, then hangs his head, mumbling, “yes. Yes, of course. Thank you.”

 

Kili nods curtly and trots away, and Fili is left alone by the small fire, the hum of the pain of all his injuries rushing back into his head like water in violent waves, and he does his best to bite it all down. Heaving himself up, he makes his way slowly through the camp until he stands at the very edge of it, overlooking what once was Esgaroth, the Great Lake, and beyond it, the Lonely Mountain. Oin was right, if the dragon really does rest at the bottom of the lake, Fili can't see an inch of him – fluffy lumps of fog begin to slink over the water, distorting the view, softening even the charred ruins of Laketown. He inhales the swiftly cooling evening air, and sighs deeply, the puff of breath freezing instantly and dispersing before his eyes, almost as if it's merging with the clouds surrounding the peak of the mountain. Tomorrow, he tells himself, and manages to feel proud at least momentarily, Erebor will be reclaimed. That is, after all, all that matters.

-

 

Bilbo dreams of the mountain. He dreams of entering it by Thorin's side, hand in hand, and upon walking inside, he sees that there are no ceilings, only the dazzling azure of the sky high up above their heads, and no dragon, nor gold, nor dwarves... He is alone then, and he sees the Shire, like one of those miniatures of human cities some of the men in Bree used to carve out of wood and paint until they looked so very real – it is like someone took his Hill, and the Party tree, and plastered it inside the mountain. The echo of his steps is unsettling as he walks atop a vast stone bridge, below him nothing, towards what looks like his home, but isn't, and he remembers sniffing the air, and deeming it too humid for the geraniums on his windowsill...

He wakes up with a quiet whimper, and is actually quite relieved when he finds out he's still in the tiny room they'd rented yesterday. And yes, there it is – the Lonely Mountain, nothing but its peak rising out of the clouds on the horizon outside the small window, directly in his line of sight. He groans and shuffles to turn over, and that's when he senses Thorin's fingers tangled into his hair – shying away immediately, the dwarf looks almost ashamed when Bilbo lays his eyes on him.

“What on earth were you doing?” Bilbo mutters sleepily, and Thorin scowls.

“I was attempting to put a braid into that excuse for a hair,” he mumbles almost timidly.

“...Why?” Bilbo inquires, and then, remembering one of their previous conversations about the significance of braids in dwarven lives, “oh, was it a... a special braid?”

Entirely unexpectedly, the dwarf looks away bashfully, the sight waking Bilbo up altogether.

“...It was?” he peeps, “oh, tell me!”

Thorin glares at him for a moment, then sighs in resignation, his fingers tangling with Bilbo's on his chest.

“Well, if you must know, it was a... a sort of like a declaration of... oh, forget it.”

Bilbo wants to utilize a marginally mocking reply, but then it dawns on him. _A declaration._

“A-a declaration of... what exactly?” he squeaks.

But Thorin doesn't reply, of course he doesn't – instead, he smiles softly, heaving himself up, beckoning: “Come here.”

He makes Bilbo sit with his left side turned to him, and a tingle dances up the hobbit's spine when the dwarf's fingers brush at his temple for the first time – Thorin begins separating his hair into strands, and before long, Bilbo begins to realize what is going on. He risks a sideways glance, and sees that Thorin is entirely immersed in his work, and so he keeps his mouth shut, instead focusing on the unknown tension of his hair being braided. 

Thorin finishes fast, but seems to glare at his work somewhat displeased.

“Hold it here,” he orders at last, and Bilbo squeezes the end of the braid between his fingers obediently.

The dwarf leans off the bed into the bundle of his clothes and backpack, rummaging around, and at last he pulls out a piece of leather string, tying the braid up. Still frowning, he notes: “This is a pauper's solution. One day, I will smelt you a proper bead, with all the appropriate markings...”

“Thorin,” Bilbo interrupts him softly, fingertips tracing the braid ever so gently, “I still don't know what it means.”

The dwarf merely gazes at him as if he's waiting for something, scrutinizing, and when Bilbo raises his eyebrows, Thorin's eyes dart away and out of the window.

“...The braid means... I would like to formally request your company,” he says quickly and curtly.

 

...And Bilbo bursts into laughter, but not before his heart makes a fluttering leap in his chest – Thorin's brows furrow in a confused frown as the hobbit sits up.

“...Is that a no?” the dwarf asks vaguely sternly.

“...Honestly?!” Bilbo chuckles, “after... after everything we've done, you still think you need to _request_ anything from me?”

“No, I... it is customary to...” Thorin babbles, and Bilbo laughs and laughs, his nightmares and insecurities forgotten, and he all but climbs onto the King to sit on his thighs astride, and leans in for a kiss, taking special care with it, making it as deep and warm and heartfelt as possible, and at last, Thorin shuts up with a muffled groan.

“ _That,_ ” Bilbo mutters against his lips and feels them slowly spreading in a smile, “was a yes. I accept your request.”

Little does he know, as the King chuckles and surprises him by enveloping him in his arms and rolling him over, that he will at one point quite soon curse himself for being so hasty, and naïve, and lovesick – but needless to say, right there and then, Thorin Oakenshield's braid in his hair and his lips and hands all over his body, very little does Bilbo Baggins care.

 

...They do manage to set out that day, after all – the weather is unexpectedly nice, the thick morning mist dispersing and offering them an excellent view of the Lonely Mountain – Thorin's eyes are glued to it, of course they are, and he marches briskly and tirelessly. Bilbo doesn't complain – he watches the sky. All sorts of birds are absolutely everywhere, large flocks and lone silhouettes alike, dashing in this direction or that, and the hobbit spares a thought for Gandalf, and tries to remember if the wizard ever told him about anything like this occurring, and what it might possibly mean. Thorin speaks of the ravens that used to reside in Erebor, of their importance and friendship with the dwarves – they do spot some of them that day, and allow themselves some hope, but limit it to encouraging words and harmless speculations.

But all caution is utterly forgotten when they encounter Ludo – he is camping by the road they're walking on, almost as if he's waiting for them (which he later confirms), and after a moment of uncomfortable tension, Thorin agrees to listen to his news.

“Two villages over,” the man says, “they saw a large group of dwarves an' elves passin' by about three weeks back.”

Bilbo's eyes are glued to the King's face, and he watches it contort in an almost pained shock – he's long since learnt that Thorin will take long before allowing himself any sort of relief, and so he merely stands by his side, asking Ludo: “Do you have any more details? There... there should be twelve of them...”

Ludo shrugs.

“I'm told they were very loud,” he offers, “talked about 'a mountain' a lot.”

“...It could be them,” Bilbo turns to Thorin carefully – the King is frowning, troubled.

“If it _were_ them,” he says sternly, “why would they travel with elves?”

Neither Bilbo nor Ludo have an appropriate answer to that, but the man adds: “They tell me a great dwarven army arrived at Laketown from the east shortly after that. An' that refugees were seen leavin' the city just days ago. Somethin' happened down there. Some people swear they saw the dragon leavin' the mountain, but others are dead certain nothin' like that happened, an' that there is a war comin'. It's spreadin' like wildfire – some have even started leavin' their homes!”

Thorin stands stock still, arms crossed, eyes darting from Ludo to the mountain on the horizon, and Bilbo begins to feel an inexplicable unease.

“You'd think these people would notice if, if... a dragon came blazing,” he notes weakly.

“Yes,” Thorin hums grimly, “you'd think. ...We need to go, get there today.”

“...Can we make it?” the hobbit muses.

“On foot, not before nightfall,” Ludo says, “but there's a man in Waterfront – it's a village just beyond those hills – an old friend. He's stayin' behind, bless 'im, even though everyone else is packin' up an' leavin'. If you come with me, he'll lend you a horse.”

“...Where... where will you go?” Bilbo asks, taking care not to sound overly grateful, as Thorin is still scowling menacingly.

“I'll head for Minas Tirith,” the man declares, “that's where the refugees were goin', an' my cousin Yanna lived in Esgaroth. I'll go find her an' her family.”

They both look at the King then, carefully and expectantly. Bilbo steps closer and Ludo understands, giving them space and marching ahead some.

“...What are you thinking, then?” Bilbo asks quietly, gently, “we might be lucky.”

Thorin looks at him briefly, features as gloomy as Bilbo was hoping never to see them again, and then proceeds to gaze at the horizon again. Looking back over his shoulder, the hobbit sees that Ludo is very generously not looking in their direction, and so he slides his hand into the dwarf's, squeezing softly.

“I don't know if Fili and Kili and the others are waiting for you there,” he mutters, “and maybe the dragon is still there, guarding his plunder. And... and _trust me,_ I know that such a clear opportunity to find out, and so early, too, is... probably frightening? But we can't turn back now – there is nowhere else to go but forward. With a dragon inside it or not, the mountain is waiting for you.”

 

At last, Thorin's eyes flutter to catch his gaze – the worry, and sadness even, in them troubles Bilbo, because it's the only place he ever gets a peek at what the King is really feeling. Thorin looks ahead at Ludo, then back to Bilbo, hanging his head.

“I mustn't... I can't afford to hope for too much,” he breathes out, and then, strained, “I can't reclaim Erebor alone.”

At that, the hobbit chuckles softly, and envelops one of Thorin's hands in both of his.

“You are not alone,” he tells him earnestly, and his heart skips a beat when the King's eyes widen in something akin to genuine surprise; he forces a playful edge to his voice then to quell his own rising worries, adding, “I sincerely hope that one day you will understand that I do not get discouraged so easily.”

Thorin opens his mouth to say something, but obviously finds himself incapable of it, because he sighs raggedly instead, granting Bilbo a small smile.

“Besides, may I remind you,” the hobbit adds, in an attempt to disperse the overwhelming, aching fondness, “I have accepted your request for... what was it? Official company... companionship? You're going to have to tell me what that entitles, and soon! Do all dwarves expect to slay dragons and restore kingdoms together in such unions?”

Fortunately, that manages to entice a huff of laughter from the dwarf, and he shakes his head.

“I can write you a list of what you're getting into, if you so desire,” he utters, and Bilbo is relieved so immensely that he chuckles as well, cupping his cheek in an entirely too outwardly tender gesture.

“Come on,” he tells him, and as they turn to join with Ludo, they are reminded of the reality of their present situation immediately.

“...Can you trust him?” Bilbo asks carefully, and the shadow over Thorin's brow resumes its place, but thankfully only momentarily.

They gaze at the man for a while, waiting for them ahead by the side of the road, looking altogether forlorn, at least in Bilbo's gentle-hearted opinion.

“...For now,” Thorin states at last.

 

The trek to the village doesn't take long. It is almost completely deserted, the last few residents hastily packing up their belongings into carts and backpacks, glaring at them with unadulterated suspicion – Bilbo begins to feel quite unpleasant quite quickly.

The man whom Ludo spoke of turns out to be a smith – they're very alike in appearance, as they converse over a small forge, probably the only fire still going in the whole place. He doesn't ask them a word, which Bilbo is secretly grateful for, since Thorin's features grow more and more tense, and simply prepares two horses, burly and incredibly furry, and Bilbo spares a thought for the ponies they'd once had. It all seems so, so long ago...

“Are you alright ridin' together?” Ludo inquires, “he can't spare anymore.”

“...I should think so,” Bilbo mutters, while Thorin states: “Quite alright.”

“Good,” Ludo nods, “well then... I'll be off. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for ya. Good luck!”

“And good luck to you,” Bilbo offers, mostly because he feels he should, “I... well, I just hope you're wrong about the war.”

And Ludo chuckles, but his face betrays him, contorting in a heavy sadness – he nods curtly, mounting his steed, which seems rather too small for him, but carries him nevertheless. Bilbo sees it then, the look that he and Thorin exchange, and it fills his heart to the brim with fear, of what is to come and of how much he still doesn't know.

“Glad tidings, King under the Mountain,” Ludo tells Thorin, and it is such an unusual thing coming from him, that even the dwarf merely stares silently, before he offers a curt nod.

“Wait!” Bilbo cries just as Ludo is about to spur his horse, and the man's eyebrows arch up.

“...Yes?”

“I... well, I don't think if I should be telling you this at all...” Bilbo stammers, ignoring Thorin next to him growing displeased, “...but your wife... Matylda... she's not at the Mill anymore. She left, but I imagine she is just fine. I don't... I don't know if you'll ever see each other again, but, well, I figured telling you could be my thank you, if not Thorin's, for... for obvious reasons...”

The King sighs raggedly, but it is merely a tired sigh, not in any sense angry; and Ludo chuckles somberly, bowing his head, his eyes glistening as he smiles.

“Thank _you,_ little Master,” he says gruffly, “...thank you. Be safe.”

And with that, he raises his hand in one last farewell, and rides away swiftly, and they are alone on the blacksmith's courtyard, and the wind suddenly seems just a degree colder and more violent. The smith watches them from the door to his house, unmoving and serene.

“Come,” Thorin beckons Bilbo softly, helping him mount and then climbing up to sit in front of him.

The horse doesn't even seem to notice, and Bilbo wraps his arms around the dwarf's torso, and soon, when they're out of the village and in the seemingly endless fields and Thorin spurs the animal to a gallop, he buries his face away from the wind and into his back, inhaling deeply and doing his very best to concentrate only on keeping his balance, and the now-familiar smell of the King's old battered overcoat, forcing himself not to think of anything else – especially not where they're going, and what that will bring.

-

 

The boat ride takes an eternity, but it doesn't really matter. Fili is sat with his leg propped up despite his vehement refusals to be treated with any sort of special care, and he can't help but smile at the sight of the company, rowing in perfect unison and singing song after song, their voices carrying over the Long Lake and echoing off the surrounding hills. The city they leave behind is burned to a cinder, and Dale looming on the horizon doesn't look any better – Bard, who was allowed to come with them to see the state of what belongs to him by blood, frowns deeper and deeper the closer to the far bank of the lake they get.

Fili watches the man with curiosity – not so very long ago, he slayed a dragon, and yet, there were no celebrations, no commendations. All those of his kind who would thank him are gone, either hiding out somewhere, oblivious to the fact that their homes are no more, or simply dead on account of laying their lives down for the city. He likes Bard. Unlike the Master – who was among the first to leave Esgaroth, not looking back once – he is sensible and down-to-earth, with next to no need to argue; many a dispute they'd all of them gone through in these past weeks was settled thanks to his calm demeanor, and outright refusal to make a mess of things just for the sake of yelling his opinion at people. The dwarves owe him a great debt, the repaying of which will merely begin by assisting him in rebuilding his long lost city.

Speaking of long lost cities... the Lonely Mountain looms closer and closer, and they can already see the two giant statues at the main gate, warriors with great axes in their hands, and Balin tells a story of who they were, and they proceed to put together an impromptu song for them. The air begins to smell with smoke again though, as they get closer, and some of them even shoot nervous looks around as if there is another dragon nearby, or as if Smaug himself will rise from his watery grave once again.

It seems like a large portion of Dale was built spreading into the lake, just like Esgaroth, only there was stone instead of wood, and so they grow quiet and concentrate on navigating their boat in between dozens of ruins, remnants of houses and beautifully arched walkways high above their heads.

“It was a wonderful city,” Balin notes, “some of our best assisted with building those bridges.”

“It will be wonderful once again,” Kili declares, and Fili sees Bard's features soften for a fleeting moment as he nods at his brother curtly.

His and Kili's eyes meet for a fleeting moment, and his brother smiles shortly before looking away across the water, and Fili has to strain himself not to groan out loud. Kili is always there now, always by his side, always attentive and kind, but then again he really isn't – everything about him, even his smile, feels distant and cold. Fili was ready for a much more... passionate reunion after Smaug's attack, and though he would never admit it, he feels robbed. And, more importantly, he doesn't know how to proceed, now that all good things are seemingly going their way, and by all accounts, they should be nothing but happy.

He's exhausted, though, and a tingle of almost boyish anticipation and nervousness prevents him from concentrating on his issues for too long – deciding that there will be time enough to mend everything after they've lit Erebor's halls once again, he waits impatiently for the boat to finally land.

 

Everything is sinisterly quiet on this side of the Long Lake – the birds they'd been seeing all those days are gone now, and wind howls and chases snowflakes through the desolate remnants of Dale's streets and alleyways. The air smells strongly of smoke, heavy and rancid, and it is all in a very unsettling contrast with the beautiful blue of the sky above their heads, and the strong shine of the midday sun.

Balin leads the way and they follow quickly, Fili leaning heavily on his makeshift cane, half because they feel a strange urge to get out of the derelict city, half because they can see it, but not all of it – the heads of the two statues at Erebor's gate seem to be gazing at them, taunting them, and they know that if they just climb that hill, get past all the ruins blocking their view, they will see it...

And it is glorious.

They stand stock still for a long time, utterly in awe. The mountain is taller now, imposing, a great shadow – the main gate still retains its glory, but it is broken apart from when the dragon burst through it and out, so it seems. Large boulders pave the barren field before it, enlivened only by the stream, rushing out of the mountain from below the gate, brisk and cheerful as if none of the horrors it witnessed had ever happened. The sides of the great entrance are scorched, the battlements crumbled, the two guardians somewhat battered and probably covered in weeds, but the sight is still an utterly breathtaking and gratifying one.

“...I can't believe we made it,” Bofur mumbles, and a few of them chuckle, and they seem to release a collective sigh of relief, and it's as if it washes away everything they've been through – because everything they'd been through has just now proven worth the struggle.

Fili watches them, chests rising in pride, gazes gleaming as they regard Erebor, and his eyes brim with tears. He can't quite believe he made it, without losing his head _or_ anyone else's head, for that matter. He glances at Balin and Dwalin, side by side, arms around each other, their smiles big and frank and touched; and Ori, seeing Erebor for the first time in his life, the larger-than-life amazement mirrored in his wide eyes and mouth gaping open; Bard, his grim frown never leaving him, but still mellowing somewhat at the sight; Dain, his arms crossed over his chest, assessing more than marveling... And Kili, tears trickling down his cheeks silently, all his youth returned to his features just then.

Fili steps closer, too overwhelmed to really say anything, and their hands seek out each other, squeezing briefly. For that one moment, Kili looks at him the way he used to when they were children, love and wonder and pride, waiting for his big brother to make the next step, lead on; and the others are gazing at him as well now, and so he disentangles his fingers from Kili's, and thinks of Thorin when he turns to the mountain, the main gate waiting, and says: “Let's go. Let's go home.”

 

They descend the hill somewhat laboriously – the great field they walk through on their way to the mountain is nothing but scorched ground, covered in ash, rocks and the remnants of the gate, the snow beginning to cover it all mercifully in a pristine, soft blanket. The hole is gaping open, and though they can't quite see inside yet, already the mountain is taunting them – it's as if it's breathing, the wind murmuring softly in every crevice.

It is not perhaps the most majestic of entrances, because the path is almost completely destroyed, and for a while, it looks like they won't be able to make it inside at all on account of all the boulders blocking their path. But a safe way is found, and then an even colder air greets them, and then...

All of them raise their heads as one when their steps begin to echo, and they stop to bring out the torches – every sound carries to unimaginable depths and heights, and the light provides very little clarification, and yet... The pillars of the Main Hall, as Balin describes it, are incredibly tall, thick and imposing, with elaborate carvings and embossing barely visible in the feeble flicker of their torches, and the lines of them, one at each side of the bridge they find themselves on, lead further ahead into the pitch black darkness.

“Adding more light should be the first course of action, I think,” Dain mutters, and everybody mumbles their approval, if a bit tensely.

“Come on,” Balin says quite quietly, but still his voice carries in an unsettling echo, “we should reach the main stairwell soon – the hoisting mechanism for the chandeliers is there, and we will have more light.”

“I will return to my men,” Bard stops them in their tracks then, his eyes darting warily in many directions, as if he's seeing something they're not.

“I will go as well,” Dain states, “I will arrange for provisions to be sent here, as well as manpower.”

“Relocate here entirely,” Fili offers in a moment of clarity, “make camp in front of the gate.”

“...It's only practical,” Balin nods.

“...Very well,” Dain agrees, and they watch them walk back towards the light then, and it all feels very strange to Fili – a part of him still expects some unknown horrors to leap out of the darkness at any given time, and another part of him feels almost guilty being inside here without Thorin by their side.

Already, he begins to sense the vastness of the mountain, both above and below them, and he wonders if they will ever bring light to all its corners.

 

“Where is the plunder, then?” Nori wonders, to many a scoff.

“The vaults lie beyond the throne chamber,” Balin says, “above the mines, deep into the heart of the mountain... Ah, here we are.”

The bridge spreads into a broad plateau, a large portion of it chipped off by the dragon and gone for good, and ahead, they see the dark outlines of a wide staircase, littered with rocks, leading up at such an angle that their torches can't yet illuminate the top of it. Thinner bridges run like beams in all directions from the center they're standing on, and the light slides faintly off the sharp edges of countless more stairs and walkways like a web interconnecting the mountain.

“Alright then,” Fili says, “I think we can all agree that nothing much can be done here without light. Balin, Dwalin, you are the only ones who know their way around here. I think we can allow to split in two groups to work faster.”

“Aye,” Balin remarks, “but there will most likely not be any oil left in the chandeliers, or anywhere else for that matter. I did arrange for Dain to bring some, but until then, we'll have to rely on the torches.”

“We could light some of the braziers,” Kili notes, pointing to the metal constructions not very many of them have noticed.

“We've no wood.”

“There's plenty left by the mouth of the river – I think I saw a couple of pines,” Kili continues, “Some of us should go get some, if only to keep warm at night, the rest can see what can be done here.”

Fili thinks of a way to convey his gratitude wordlessly – his leg is beginning to throb unpleasantly from standing around for too long, and it's as if the darkness of the whole place is weighing down on him somewhat. He feels something in the air, a shift ever so slight, as if there's a whisper just around the corner, so faint he can barely hear it, but still nagging at the back of his mind.

“Very well then,” Balin declares when Fili grunts in pain, shifting his weight even more to the healthy leg, “we'll get the braziers cleaned out, see what state the chandeliers are in. Dwalin?”

“Aye,” his brother nods, “Kili, Nori, Dori... Bombur, Gloin and Bifur with me. Come on then!”

They watch them hurry away, their silhouettes soon nothing but just another specks against the now-blinding white of the main gate, their footsteps dying off completely. Fili groans as he tries his leg, and he realizes he hasn't even seen his injuries properly. Not that he's particularly keen on it.

“Let's do this, then,” he says.

“Oh, you're not going anywhere,” Balin states, and when Fili furrows his brows in confusion, he adds more sternly, “sit down. We can manage. There's nothing much we can do here than wait, anyway.”

“Let me have a look at you, laddie,” Oin chimes in, and Fili merely sighs, sinking down onto one of the stone benches built in a circle around the plateau.

Balin leads the others away, and in the firelight, Oin uncovers the wound, talking of whipping up a more powerful salve as soon as he can, and the recklessness of youth, but Fili hardly listens. His eyes are glued to the impenetrable darkness of the far corner of the hall, not even for any particular reason – the only sounds are coming from Balin, Ori and Bofur clambering down a smaller flight of stairs leading below the central plateau, commenting their progress loudly, and yet, Fili could swear he hears... _senses_ something else.

An almost terrifying creak reverberates through the hall then, followed by squeaking and scrunching – above them, a massive chandelier sways as it is being lowered by a mechanism Fili can't hope to understand, dust and debris trickling off it. It lands on the ground with a deep clang, and Bofur, Nori and Balin hurry to inspect it – it is taller than them, an intricate system of beautifully curved metal and lamps in different sizes, Fili sees as he limps closer. Ever so carefully, they begin taking it apart, unscrewing the glass that remained in one piece and cleaning it out, finding out that indeed, all oil has long gone, and the wicks have dried up and decayed.

“Well, it _has_ been almost two centuries,” Balin notes dryly.

“Still, those who made it would be proud,” Bofur says, “no rust at all.”

“The metals of Erebor never rusted,” Balin sighs almost dreamily, “you'll see.”

 

But there really is surprisingly little to do – they agree to go see the vaults and the famed plunder once they've reunited with the others, and no one feels particularly keen on wandering further into the mountain anyway, with so very little light at their disposal. It feels like hours and hours, but the rest of the company finally return, after Balin has all but exhausted his recollections of the layout of the kingdom, Ori scribbling it all down on a piece of parchment, and when Fili has just begun dozing off.

They drag one of the massive, heavy braziers into the very middle of the plateau, and another one, after a fair amount of cursing and groaning, is positioned on the first landing of the stairs – fire flickers to life surprisingly quickly, and the light is not plentiful, but it still does offer a better view of their surroundings. Quiet for a blessed moment, they regard the pillars towering high above their heads, hewn from the mountain itself, and the patterns, once inlaid with gold, running across their sides.

They feast on a quick dinner from what little Dain has managed to procure for them, and then they are on their way, torches bobbing, deep into the mountain, and deeper still. They walk across the breathtakingly thin bridges over the gaping mouth of the Deep Stone, where all the mining used to take place, and they see but a faint glimmer of the many chains, and buckets, and cages, all left unattended for decades.

“How deep does it go?” someone asks almost reverently, and they all stick closer together as one when Balin gives them a rough estimate.

“The dragon could have gotten stuck down there and no one would have noticed,” Nori mutters.

“Aye, and it's a shame he didn't,” Bofur replies.

 

The throne room is... almost entirely invisible to them, sunken in impenetrable darkness, the sole bridge leading to the throne itself vanishing into the black. The air is noticeably colder here, and when Balin describes the span of the hall, they understand why. Fili begins to feel utterly feeble in the maze of the kingdom, and rightly so – it was built for thousands of dwarves to thrive in, and he can only hope the number of its inhabitants will ever match its glory days. Speaking of glory...

“Oh my merry mother and her seven drunk uncles,” Gloin conveys their collective shock perfectly as they finally lay their eyes upon the wealth of Erebor in a pile.

They have no hope of seeing the far side of the enormous vault – its ceilings seem even higher than those of the Main Hall, and the span of it is lost entirely in the black. But the hoard... there are hills of it, stocked haphazardly, and the faintest shimmer of it is enough to fill their hearts to a brim with an urge most of them haven't felt their whole lives. They find a way down, and when the first coins clink and crunch under their feet, they grow restless, almost like children, and wander far into the room. The stone soon echoes with their amazed and overjoyed cries at the finds, and Fili, whose head begins to ache quite intensely, soon gives up on trying to control their zest in any way. He merely sits down on what is left of the stairs, and gazes at the seemingly infinite sea of jewel boxes, goblets, spears and shields, and yes, even a number of heavily decorated metal doors, tossed about on top of their piles as if they were as light as paper. The reek of the dragon is still noticeable, but gradually dulled by something much more potent, much more powerful, and much, much more desirable – the smell of gold.

“Hm?” he mumbles, because he somehow manages to register that Balin was saying something.

He is the only one who decided not to plunge into the hoard headfirst, and the look he casts over it, and then grants Fili, is really more of a troubled frown.

“I said,” he utters, “we mustn't let anyone see this without permission and company. Passions run high in the presence of unaccounted treasure.”

Just then, Bofur's heartfelt 'Oh, come here, _you beauty!_ ' interrupts Balin, and his brow quirks meaningfully.

“I imagine Dain will get all but unbearable when he sees this,” Balin continues, and Fili pinches the bridge of his nose, “and I'm sure Bard has all the amiable qualities known to men, but even he might very well be swayed in some... undesirable directions.”

Fili half groans, half chuckles.

“You speak as if this hoard will make us murder each other in our sleep,” he notes.

“Dwarves, and men as well, I believe, have been killed in their sleep for much, much less, laddie,” Balin replies simply, and Fili sighs, running his hands over his face.

“Yes, you're right, of course,” he mumbles, “well then, we... shed some light on this. Literally. Begin listing the contents of this room, don't let any outsiders in until it's finished. I do believe we will, however, have to suffer Dain – we need his help.”

“...Aye,” Balin confirms begrudgingly, and he's about to say more, but an entirely expected sound stops them all in their tracks – the call of a horn, faint, but clear.

“...Dain's soldiers?” Fili ponders.

“Well, if it's anyone else, we're in some trouble,” Balin states dryly.

 

They proceed to call everyone back, which proves quite an ordeal, as they all feel the urge to carry with them as much as they can take, an obviously ridiculous notion. Their pockets jingling with gems, and their hands a couple of rings heavier, they make their way out of the vault, when they notice a lone torch like a firefly dancing quite far away, and a quick headcount reveals that Kili is missing. They shout at him, and he responds faintly, but as they can't wait any longer, Fili sends them ahead, and remains in the vault to wait for his brother.

He sits down again, his leg protesting vehemently against any sort of movement after a whole day's worth of straining it, and locks his gaze on the speck of light slowly getting nearer and nearer. He hears a distant, slow drip of water, probably far on the other side of the room, but other than that, all is almost sinisterly quiet, the air somewhat stale – he realizes it's the sheer enormity, the unaccounted depth of all he has not yet seen, that sets his teeth on edge. He feels a sudden longing to never rest until he's seen the whole of the kingdom, brought light to its every corner, hall, bridge and staircase, and thus reclaimed it properly. So far, it feels like it is merely waiting for them to make it theirs again, letting them inside, but not really accepting them. They are too few, to quiet, too meaningless, compared to the mountain.

He finally sees Kili properly then, the fire of his torch illuminating a large pile of what looks like halberds and other weapons – to Fili's surprise, he's not carrying anything, simply walks towards him without any rush, as if he's strolling down a sunlit meadow, and for some reason, the sight brings a smile to Fili's face.

“There were harps,” Kili says excitedly, and instead of helping him stand, he sits next to Fili, their shoulders brushing as they gaze into the once-again-impenetrable darkness of the vault, “a whole pile of them. And fiddles, too. Sorry I lingered, but it just... it reminded me of Thorin.”

Fili risks a glance, and sees his brother's eyes have a somewhat distant look in them, as he also attempts to see something, anything, in the utter pitch black before them.

“It's fine,” he mumbles, “Thorin should be by our side now. He should be the one to light these halls.”

“...We did good by him, Fili,” Kili states softly, entirely unexpectedly, and when his eyes flicker to him, Fili sees a long-lost gleam in them.

“I hope so,” he mutters, hanging his head.

Kili's hand finds his, and their fingers tangle together somewhat tentatively, and Fili looks at him, wanting to say something, anything...

“We need to send a letter to Mother.”

 

Kili says it so earnestly that Fili can't quite help the outburst of laughter – it echoes long and rich, and he thinks it must be ages since he's laughed like that, or at all.

“Oh, Mahal,” he chuckles, “yes, we do! I would've forgotten completely!”

“She will be _so_ furious,” Kili's eyebrows arch up earnestly, and proceeds to laugh along with his brother.

Like the utter fool he is, Fili can't tear his eyes from his face, now brighter than any light he could possibly hope to bring to Erebor, but before he can say anything, Kili grants him a short smile and jumps to his feet, extending his arm to him.

“Come on,” he says, “best we get back.”

Fili feels a dull pang of pain that has nothing to do with his bad leg, but he merely sighs and accepts Kili's hand. His injury announces itself horribly though as he scrambles to his feet, and instinctively, he flings his arm to Kili for support, who grabs him firmly by the shoulder – Fili ends up in his arms somewhat awkwardly, and Kili's eyes are calm and gentle, a small smile dancing on his lips, but most importantly, he's the closest he's been in a very long time, and Fili hopes with his whole being that...

“Here, let me get your cane.”

No. His brother breaks the moment effortlessly, almost gracefully, bending to get Fili's walking stick as he all but groans, exasperated. But Kili doesn't seem to notice or care, and simply waits for him by the entrance to the vault. Fili grits his teeth and limps after him.

“You know,” he utters, his worries deafened by the urge to get things out in the open (where that comes from he's not entirely sure), “when I said that we were alive, and Erebor was waiting, and it was all that mattered, what I meant was...-”

“I know what you meant. I'm not entirely dull.”

“W-well then,” Fili stammers, a bit taken aback, “is there a reason why you're avoiding me?”

“I'm not. Or is me, walking by your side right now, avoiding you?”

“You know what I mean, dammit.”

“I really don't.”

“ _Kili,_ ” he all but growls, and it carries, echoes, because they are now standing above the Deep Stone, the void that was once full of miners, fires, and light, but only serves to send goosebumps up Fili's spine now.

His brother stops ahead of him, the features of his face stern now in the firelight.

“What do you want?” he asks, and Fili is suddenly reminded of a conversation they had what now seems a lifetime ago ( _You. I just want you._ ).

“...Peace,” he sighs, hanging his head, hunched over because his leg is now barely carrying him, and he desperately needs to lie down, “I just want peace from... from this. We've slain a dragon. We've re-entered the mountain. We've achieved so much, but we have so much work ahead of us yet, and I... I still worry about you, night and day. I was being incredibly silly, but a part of me thought... Oh, Mahal, I think I dreamed it actually, after I was knocked out in Smaug's attack... anyway, I thought we would...-”

“What?” Kili mumbles, now standing inches away, his voice a cold tingle on the back of Fili's neck, his breath brushing at his cheeks, “did you think we would run into each other's arms? Is that what you want?”

“...And you?” Fili breathes out.

“I was asking first – is _this_ what you _want?_ ”

 

Kili's hands cupping his cheeks are gentle, but still manage to knock the air out of his lungs – along with the kiss, of course. It isn't in any way forceful, or urgent, or predatory – Kili's lips are soft, his fingers tangling in the hair behind Fili's ears tenderly, and he surrenders immediately, letting him in, to which he receives a very warm response, Kili's tongue taking him apart slowly but surely, but just as Fili is about to get a better, firmer hold to get even closer, his brother pulls away, enticing an almost desperate gasp as his whole body moves forward, refusing to lose him. The cold Fili feels at the parting is almost unbearable, and he blinks, dazed, and somewhat worried he might stumble into the abyss below them.

“Well?” Kili asks quietly.

“...Well what?” Fili exhales.

“Tell me what you want,” his brother says softly, almost sadly, and Fili is just so utterly confused at that point, opening his mouth without being too sure what will come out, but Kili raises his hand, “when you're ready. I'll be here. Come on.”

And he walks away and doesn't turn back once, and Fili trails behind him, feeling a bit like a drowsy child stumbling out of bed in the middle of the night, his mind not quite cooperating, presenting him with no acceptable solutions, much less explanations, whatsoever to what just happened.

The Main Hall is a mess of Dain's soldiers bringing provisions in and out, and it's loud, and bright, and horrible, and Fili doesn't even know who it is that leads him to his bedroll and puts him to sleep, but he is eternally grateful, because slumber overcomes him immediately, allowing him to worry about nothing at all for a few blissful hours. Tomorrow, he will think it all a dream, but the question will remain with him anyway, because Kili knew exactly why he asked it – still, after everything they've been through, after everything he's achieved, everything he's pushed himself to do, Fili doesn't... doesn't know what he wants.

-

 

They don't speak much. They don't speak when they stop for a short lunch. They don't speak when the Lonely Mountain on the horizon grows so large they can see the flocks of birds circling it. They don't speak. Bilbo feels Thorin growing tenser and more worried the closer they get, and he keeps his hands splayed on his chest, or on his back as they ride, soothing, or simply resting, and it's enough. He figures Thorin will say something if he so desires, and that pushing him to do so otherwise would prove unwise.

Besides, what is there to talk about? The King's fears are a topic they have been leaving somewhat skimmed, for both their sakes, and Bilbo's own worries... well, they certainly seem quite pointless and small in comparison.

The smell of smoke grows stronger, and clouds of it are rising from the valley where Esgaroth is, they can see that now. Thorin spurs the tired horse to a gallop once more, and all the calm tiredness of traveling wears off almost immediately when they see that the city is quite literally burned to a cinder. It perhaps once stood mostly in the waters of the Great Lake, but all that is gone now, only charred remains and half-afloat debris suggesting what it used to look like.

“...Where's the dragon?” Bilbo peeps as Thorin leads their horse down a vast field.

Everything is quiet save for the snow crunching under the animal's hooves, and the wind wailing in the surrounding hills, but at least they can see movement along the bank of the lake, where a small camp stands.

“Those are dwarven tents,” Thorin utters, in his voice a mixture of worry and eagerness.

But soon, they see that not dwarves, but men reside there, chopping wood and warming themselves up by a number of fires, and the hobbit and the dwarf approach slowly, sharing an unspoken uneasiness. They are regarded with unconcealed suspicion as they dismount.

“...Who are you, then?” one of the men asks gruffly, him and his companions rising from their seats, and Bilbo has to strain himself not to take an involuntary step back – it's been so long since he's been around so many people so much taller than him.

“I am Thorin Oakenshield,” the dwarf speaks clearly, not budging an inch, and only Bilbo can see his hand hovering in front of him protectively, “the heir to the throne of Erebor. I've come to reclaim it.”

“What... on your own?” the soldier scoffs and they all laugh.

“Your job is being done for you right now, you know,” another one remarks, and Bilbo sees the ghost of pained confusion dash across Thorin's face.

“These tents are of dwarvish make,” he notes, “who supplied them?”

“They are the tents of Dain Ironfoot – your cousin,” a far too familiar voice offers, and they swivel around, Bilbo's breath hitching in his throat.

 

“Gandalf!” he cries, without regard for the onlookers, and the wizard rumbles in laughter and places one heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Well, you're a sight for sore eyes!” he exclaims, “for a while there I thought I would never see you again, both of you! You must tell me everything!”

“First things first,” Thorin says, the relief of seeing a familiar face evident in his voice, “ _who_ is reclaiming my mountain right now?”

The brightest, kindest of smiles spreads over Gandalf's face, and leaning on his cane, he declares: “Well if you two managed to survive for so long on your own, imagine how the rest of your company fared!”

“They...” Thorin begins, but his voice betrays him, coming out a ragged sigh, and so he coughs, starting again, “they... they're at the mountain? ...Now? All of them?!”

“Indeed,” Gandalf nods.

And Bilbo doesn't think he's ever seen anything more beautiful than Thorin's face crumpling in a mixture of relief, joy and shock, a disbelieving laugh escaping him – the hobbit himself feels weak in the knees, their luck beyond everything they've ever dared hope for, and when he grabs Thorin's arm and the dwarf leans into it, it's no longer clear who is supporting whom.

“...The dragon has been slain, obviously,” the wizard remarks, and Bilbo bursts into laughter then as well.

“Yes, we can see that!” he says, “where is he?”

“On the bottom of the lake,” a new voice offers, “and who are you?”

 

The newcomer bows his head as he walks out of his tent, and he is quite a menacing sight, features stern and grim under an unruly mane of dark hair.

“This,” Gandalf takes it upon himself to introduce them, “is Bilbo Baggins, and this is Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror...-”

“King under the Mountain, yes, I can see that,” the man says dryly, “my name is Bard, formerly of Laketown. My men were right – all your work has been done for you.”

“Bard is the heir of Girion, Thorin,” Gandalf hastens to add, “him and your nephews struck quite an interesting deal.”

“My... my nephews?” Thorin breathes out weakly.

“There is much you don't know, trust me,” the wizard all but giggles, “as I said, Dain is here as well, with the full might of his army, I must say. He has just relocated to the fields before Erebor and is helping with its restoration, I believe. Bard and his men will be moving to the ruins of Dale shortly. Oh, and the Elvenking Thranduil is on his way.”

Thorin gapes at him, and Bilbo watches the turmoil of emotions warring in his face, from shock, anger, joy, all the way back to confusion, and he sighs deeply.

“You must help me make some sense of this,” he states, “we need to get to Erebor.”

“We've only two boats between this camp, Dain's army and the mountain, I'm afraid,” Gandalf says, “and they're only returning in the morning. I know you've waited long enough, but it'll take one more night.”

Bilbo half expects an outburst of anger, but the dwarf merely exhales deeply and nods.

“So it seems – but you will tell me everything.”

Gandalf grins, and beckons them inside one of the tents almost jovially.

“Only if you return the favor.”

Bilbo pfft's at the idea of telling the wizard _everything_ they've been through, and Thorin shoots him an amused look, clearly thinking of the same, and that is all the hobbit needs to stop worrying, at least for a little while.

 

The night is a blur, and he mostly just clutches his pipe as theories and speculations fly back and forth between Thorin, Gandalf and Bard – the wizard speaks of what he witnessed in the north of Mirkwood, of evil and power beyond Bilbo's understanding. And yet, the hobbit somehow feels that there is something Gandalf isn't telling them, and his suspicions prove correct when he excuses himself deep into the night to catch some fresh air and possibly go to sleep, his head swarming with everything he's learnt so far, and the wizard appears by his side as he's finishing his pipe, looking over the vast darkness of the Long Lake, startling him somewhat.

“I must say I'm impressed,” Gandalf mumbles, “you took very good care of him.”

Bilbo chokes on the pipe smoke going down the wrong hole.

“Take care of him... no! I mean, I didn't... well, erm... it's not that we... excuse me.”

“I was merely referring to the fact that you saved his life,” Gandalf says gently, “several times, actually, he tells me! Quite extraordinary.”

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Bilbo looks up at the wizard, and back gazes seemingly nothing more than a gentle attentiveness.

“Well, I... it was nothing, really,” he mutters at last, “we owe everything to the kind people we were staying with. I mean... things turned out quite differently in the end, but still, I don't believe Thorin or I would have survived without their help.”

“Do not belittle your achievements,” Gandalf frowns at him, repeating something Bilbo thinks he's heard once before, “your role in this story is not a small one, and... the story is far from over.”

When Bilbo merely blinks up at him, confused and not a little weary, the wizard smiles somberly, squeezing his shoulder briefly.

“You've heard the news of the war, I assume?” he asks, and Bilbo inhales sharply.

They didn't tell him all the details of their... exploits with Ludo, as Thorin wanted to be sure before stringing together anymore theories, but still...

“What is there to war over...?” he peeps.

“Oh, there are always many, many things to war over, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf sighs, “I don't think the world will ever run out of reasons to start wars. Now... I want to speak of this after everyone has reunited, surely you understand, so I trust you will keep it to yourself, but... the rumors are true. We have been blind, and in our blindness, our enemy has returned.”

“What... what enemy?” Bilbo asks weakly.

“You will see soon enough,” the wizard replies quietly, “Thorin alone has some unsettled debts, as you and I both know, but... I fear we will all soon wish that that were all there is to it.”

“Gandalf, you're scaring me,” Bilbo chuckles uneasily, and when the wizard smiles at him, for a second he looks everything but mighty – he is nothing more than a very old man with a walking stick and a peculiar hat as he sits hunched next to the hobbit, and for the first time in ages, Bilbo reminds himself just how blissful their ignorance has been up until now.

“Forgive me,” Gandalf chuckles, “but I wouldn't tell you this if I wasn't certain you could handle it, and more, Bilbo Baggins. _Whatever_ you've found in your travels,” he gestures with his head meaningfully towards Thorin approaching them from the campsite, “hold onto it.”

 

And as he does hold onto it very literally that night, his fingers digging into Thorin's arms around him, Bilbo can't help but wonder, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, if he isn't just fooling himself – if he really does have what it takes to continue this. If Gandalf, with his joy at the sight of him, and Thorin, with the trust he has put in him, aren't both giving him too much credit. If the Baggins he once was isn't still there, undermining the Took he's become. _Well then,_ he thinks to himself before slumber claims him for good, _what wonderful metaphors you've been coming up with lately, Bilbo Baggins. Imagine what your mother would say. ...Yes, she'd probably laugh._

-

 

Fili wakes up with a very specific yearning – to find his brother, get him somewhere solitary and finally, after so long, kiss some sense into him. It's been years, decades, _ages,_ since he's felt this... this giddiness, and he intends to let Kili know as best he can.

But apparently, it is easier said than done – the center of the mountain is swarming with people, Dain's soldiers alongside the others repairing, cleaning, but most importantly, lighting everything. The large chandelier is being hoisted back up just as Fili walks onto the plateau, and he stops and stares, everything else forgotten for a while, as do the others – it sputters and hisses, the massive chain on which it hangs creaking, but it shines beautifully and steadily, and light spreads into the darkest corners of the hall, bringing out the faded green hue of the stone.

“Feeling better, laddie?” Balin asks, appearing at his side.

“Much,” Fili nods, “say, where is Kili?”

“Oh, he's helping in Dain's camp now, I believe.”

“Thank you.”

But by the time he limps out of the mountain and into the blinding light outside, he is too preoccupied with other tasks, Ori trotting by his side and writing it all down, showing him on the first haphazard version of the map of the kingdom where they need to investigate next, and how the ventilation shafts work... And Dain's camp is an even bigger chaos, and when he finally finds the warlord, he learns that his brother has gone with the boat over the lake to help with some of the finishing touches of moving everything here, and he's getting exhausted...

After withstanding not less than thirty minutes of Dain's lecture about the reinforcements he has planned for the broken gate, he finally decides to head back inside, where he promptly joins a group going deep underground to assess the state of the mining facilities, and by the time they emerge, covered from head to toe in coal dust and very, very excited about their findings, more dwarves have filled the mountain, and still no sight of Kili.

Ori fetches him then, beyond himself with joy at the discovery of an untouched library, and because he can't get a hold of Kili at all, Fili agrees to go with him, only to marvel at the miles and miles they have to walk before they get there, taking the whole afternoon to illuminate the massive hall full of old parchments and even older books – the intricate system of ventilation shafts apparently failed at one point during the last one hundred and seventy years, and thus the air is stale with mold and rot, and many of the valuable volumes are destroyed. Fili leaves Ori to his overexcited makings, quite happy to order a bunch of soldiers around to carry the books and repair the shelves, and returns to the center of the insanity that is the restoration of Erebor, only to learn the best of news he will have heard that day – the hot springs have been found, and apparently the water is quite shockingly pristine.

Not having seen Kili all day, and determined to catch him, Fili lingers behind while the others go clean themselves, and helps wherever he can – he is quickly getting exhausted, the injury he's been neglecting all day reminding him of its existence, but he doesn't let that slow him down. He's dead certain Kili is toying with him at this point, the belief only strengthened when his brother does appear after all, with a small group of soldiers, their arms full of weaponry from the vaults, and when Fili approaches him, a mischievous grin spreads on his face when he hears about the hot springs, and he exclaims 'Oh, _brilliant!_ ' and leads the next group scheduled to go there, singing a rather dirty song at the top of his lungs, eyes glinting cheerfully as he shoots glances at Fili, who merely stands stock still amidst the general chaos, arms crossed over his chest, utterly unsure whether he should laugh or spit profanities.

“Fili!” Balin says rather sternly, and he realizes the old dwarf has been standing by his side for quite some time now.

“...Yes? I'm sorry,” he stammers.

“Come. There is something I want to show you.”

 

Incapable of coming up with anything else he should do anymore, he follows Balin up countless flights of stairs, until the ruckus below them resembles an anthill, and Fili realizes he hasn't been in this particular part of the mountain yet.

“These are the royal quarters,” Balin explains, leading him into a corridor with high arched ceilings that have at some point been lit, the lamps, as well as the markings on the walls and the pillars, more intricate than the ones he's seen down on the surface level so far.

He listens to Balin's account of all the amazing dwarves and treasures this halls once knew, somewhat dazed – they pass numerous doors, some half ajar, all of them heavy and beautifully decorated, surviving the centuries effortlessly. They hear noises up ahead, and Balin leads him into a room that takes his breath away – a large bed stands on a pedestal in the middle of it, and numerous dwarves scurry around it, adjusting fresh new bedspreads from Dain's reserves. The room has been scrubbed clean, and Fili can't help but walk closer to the walls and the shelves, all carved from polished stone, and run his fingertips across the smooth surface. Behind him, more and more chandeliers are lit, and he notices there is a side room with an actual, proper bathtub in it.

“...What is this?” he chuckles in disbelief.

“This was your uncle's room,” Balin replies softly, and Fili freezes, inspecting it again, with more attention to detail.

He recognizes some variation of Thorin's sigil carved in a repetitive pattern lining the doors and the bed, but other than that, everything that could ever have reminded him of his Uncle is long gone. He notices someone has carried his things up here at one point, and the scraggy bundle of them on the ground seems kind of inappropriate in the grandeur surrounding it.

“...Do you expect me to stay here?” he turns to Balin, and, entirely unexpectedly, the old dwarf chuckles.

“Well, the bathtub should be about ready.”

“What... there's water up here?” Fili exclaims, utterly undignified, and rushes to inspect the bathroom – and indeed, the dwarves working on it just seem to be screwing the last of a complicated system of pipes in place, and then, after turning a knob, all they hear for a moment is a distant gurgle and hum, but then the faucet coughs and sputters, and water begins pouring into the polished bathtub, to a vocal joy of the workers.

“This is incredible!” Fili exclaims, “but... what of the others? I can't just... it doesn't feel right, Balin, being the only one with this, this... this much luxury.”

 

Balin bursts into gleeful laughter at that.

“Oh, please, lad,” he sniggers, “everyone else is being accommodated as we speak! What do you think I've been doing all day? ...Most of the common quarters were too close to the vaults, though, and they were largely ruined by the dragon. But this part was surprisingly well preserved, and most of the others will be staying here! Don't think I'd let you have the whole floor to yourself!”

Fili laughs, and, tentatively, goes to sit on the bed as the other dwarves begin to pack up and leave.

“This is wonderful,” he mumbles, “strange, but wonderful. I don't... I'm not sure I'll be able to fall asleep in a proper bed anymore!” 

It is Balin's turn to laugh.

“Give it a try. Oh, also, Oin tells me to inform you that you're perfectly capable of taking a bath, just mind the stitches, and that he'll stop by with a new ointment later. Have you had dinner?”

Fili chuckles, suddenly overwhelmed by the incredibility of it all, from this room, to Balin fussing over him like he were no more than twenty.

“I did, yes, thank you,” he says, and then, more quietly, “...where's Kili staying?”

“Just across from you,” Balin replies kindly, “should I tell him you want to speak to him?”

“Oh, Mahal, that sounds awfully like requesting an audience,” Fili groans, “no, it's fine.”

Balin's eyebrows arch up, but he merely shrugs, bids him good night and leaves, and the sudden silence washes over him almost tenderly. He lays back on the bed, exhaling deeply, but bolts right back up again soon enough, because he remembers he hasn't washed properly all day.

The water in the bathtub is pleasantly lukewarm, and he doesn't even attempt to understand the system of the piping and the faucets – not today.

Laboriously, he disposes of his clothes and sinks into the bathtub carefully, his leg even more fragile without the bandages, the skin over the slowly hearing wound puffed and reddened – but all that is forgotten immediately as the water embraces him. It is like a thousand blessings, his muscles relaxing, his eyes closing on their own, head falling back as he sinks ever lower until he can rest against the back of the tub. The pain of his many bruises forgotten, he falls asleep right there and then, and only wakes when the door creaks, and someone enters the bedroom.

“Oin?” he calls, a bit befuddled, “could you... could you get me one of those sheets from the bed? I didn't bring anything with me...”

He hears the shuffling of fabric, and footsteps, but appearing in his line of sight at last is very definitely not Oin.

“Hi,” Kili says brightly.

Fili brushes his hand over his face and thus learns that the water has gone unpleasantly cold.

“...Hello – what are you doing here again?”

“Oin gave me the salve to bring you for your injuries,” his brother replies simply, “come on.”

 

Fili is too tired to struggle, really. He clambers out of the bathtub slowly, taking care not to step on his bad leg, which obviously concludes with him slipping and avoiding a nasty fall only thanks to Kili, who grabs him by the shoulder and steadies him. He then proceeds to wrap the clean sheet around him, and Fili feels very weak and very, very silly standing in front of him, his hair still dripping, incapable of saying much.

He limps into the bedroom and slumps on the bed, heaving his leg up with his hands.

“Alright, where's the ointment?” he mumbles sleepily, and can't even find it within him to protest when Kili sits down to him, a small can in his hands, and says: “You look horrible. Let me help you.”

With the first gentle brush of Kili's fingers at his skin, Fili realizes that he's not quite as numb as he thought, but he's too drowsy to care, really. He lets Kili spread the balm over the scar evenly, and lets him bandage the leg, his movements and touches ever so gentle and careful, and only ever blinks awake when his brother says: “Lie down. Let me see your back.”

“Huh... what?” he blubbers, and Kili snickers.

“Your bruises,” he offers, “have you seen them? Come on, roll over.”

And again, Fili complies without much ado, burying his face into a pillow Balin got from Mahal knows where, and a ragged sigh escapes him when Kili begins rubbing the salve into his strained back. 

“You know,” he mumbles into the surprisingly soft fabric, “I've been trying to find you all day today.”

“Oh, really?” Kili notes matter-of-factly, his fingertips drawing circles into the small of Fili's back.

“Yes, really,” Fili sighs childishly, “I wanted to tell you... things.”

“...What things?”

“That you were right,” Fili exhales, absolutely no inhibitions left, “I don't know what I want.”

Kili's movements stop for just a split second, and then he notes, somewhat dully: “Oh.” and Fili can't help but smile into his pillow.

“Besides you, of course,” he offers.

The sharp intake of breath might as well have been a dream, because Kili continues uninterrupted for so long Fili begins to think he didn't hear him. At last, his brother stops, Fili's back suddenly cold at the lack of touch, and he feels weight shift as Kili sits back.

“...Are you sure?”

Ever so slowly, with much hardship, Fili rolls over onto his back, and he can't but smile lazily at the sight, Kili sitting with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes widened in genuine worry.

“Come here,” he mumbles gently, even extending his hand towards his brother too much of an ordeal, “I would get up, but I'm melting into the sheets here.”

But Kili frowns shortly.

“No, listen,” he says in a tone so serious Fili almost winces in exasperation, “I've never really apologized-”

“You'll apologize tomorrow.”

“But when I said the mountain was all that mattered, I-”

“I _know,_ Kili. Get down here before I fall asleep.”

“But I need you to know that I never meant to-”

“ _Kili._ Please,” Fili groans, “I can't take this much longer. I forgive you. I need you. You're silly, and still so... so clueless, but I don't care. _Please_ come here.”

His brother opens his mouth to say something, but shuts it again, and through his horrible sleepiness, Fili sees that his eyes are glistening unnaturally. With immense hardship, he heaves himself up on his elbow.

“...Are you crying?” he wonders.

“No,” comes a weak reply.

“I love you.”

“I _hate_ you.”

 

And then Kili is finally on him, the weight of his body making Fili groan as his numerous bruises act up all at once, but the kiss washes all that away. Kili straddles his sides, cupping his cheeks and kissing his excitement into him, just like when they were twenty and nothing else mattered. Fili is entirely incapable of matching his enthusiasm, and so he simply takes it in, basks in it, opening up and letting Kili in, their kisses deep and wet and sloppy. His hands rest on Kili's back, scraping gently, nails digging in when his brother's lips move on from his mouth to his neck and collarbone, slowly but intently – Fili feels relief and pleasure coursing through his veins, and he closes his eyes, the comfort unlike anything he thought he'd ever receive again.

“Don't you dare fall asleep on me,” Kili mumbles against his chest.

“Then make me stay awake,” Fili utters, and Kili doesn't waste time and moves onto his nipples.

That has always been a good strategy, and Fili's breaths turned into little choked gasps, his fingers tangling in Kili's hair as he moves quickly lower, a trail of feather-light kisses all over his stomach, uncovering the sheet Fili is wrapped in further and further, until finally, his eyes, large and dark, peep up at Fili from between his own legs.

The groan that escapes him as Kili drags his teeth over his cock still covered in the fabric, is quite undignified, and yet he stutters: “I don't... I won't be able to, to... repay you tonight.”

Kili grins, wide and mischievous.

“I'll remember it for next time,” he states cheerfully, and then his hand cups Fili's jewels, and he runs his mouth across the building bulge, teasing, still not removing the sheet, and Fili exhales through his nose, flinging his head back.

Kili adds his tongue, and combined with the coarse fabric, it does wonders. Fili attempts to jerk his hips closer, deeper into the touch, but is immediately reminded of his bruises.

“Careful,” Kili hums with a smile, and Fili wants to reply, but finds himself incapable of it as he watches Kili finally remove the sheet, his eyes glancing up at him one last time before he finally takes him in his mouth properly.

He knows from the get-go that it will not take long – he is embarrassingly hard already, and the mixture of trying to lay as still as possible on account of his injuries, and jerking closer, into the touch, is enough to set a pleasant tension deep in his gut, his breathing heavy, his fingers digging into Kili's scalp as his head bobs rhythmically. Fili feels a momentary pang of stale guilt at what they're doing in _their Uncle's old room, oh Mahal, think of where you are,_ but then Kili scrambles closer, and all else is forgotten when he first deep-throats him.

Fili cries out, an immense bout of both pleasure and pain seizing him as his hips buck up, and Kili splays his hands over his hipbones, holding him down, his thumbs soothing the sensitive skin there, and Fili's groaning grows louder, unrestricted. In his bliss, he remembers all the times when they were just little whelps, quick, brash movements, teeth marking their territory even though they knew they would get in trouble... As if he's reading his thoughts, Kili bares his teeth for the faintest second, and an almost guttural growl escapes Fili – he feels his release coming.

Kili works him towards the end with quick, expert strokes of his hand, and Fili is squirming and panting heavily, utterly at his brother's mercy (which he hopes there will be more of, oh yes), until finally, he climaxes with a pained cry, his hands clenching in the sheets below him. Kili's hands soothe his thrashing legs, gentle kisses on his thighs and hips as he rides it all out, until he's nothing but a puddle of helpless, sated goo.

Already, Fili feels his eyes closing on their own, and he whimpers when Kili leaves him.

“Don't go,” he moans, and hears a soft chuckle in response.

His eyes closed, he suffers a mild shock when he feels something wet on his stomach, but it's just Kili cleaning him off, and he really does not need more than that – the second his brother stops and climbs into his arms, pressing one last soft kiss to his lips, Fili falls asleep, utterly blissed out, and Kili might be murmuring something, but he cannot hear him, doesn't really care, and no one can really fault him.

 

 

When they wake up to a fierce knocking, Fili thinks at first that the last night was a dream, of course. But Kili _is_ laying next to him, sprawled over the wide bed, one arm over his chest, and a part of him feels angry that they don't get to wake up slowly and together, but another part of him, a much more practical one, realizes that there are some who do not expect them to be sleeping in the same room at all.

He sits up abruptly as his brother slowly comes to, and drapes a sheet over himself in a feeble attempt at some sort of decency, but that's when Bofur barges in, and doesn't even seem to be fazed with the sight presented to him, and with his words, they realize why.

“Wake up, come on!” he exclaims, breathless and eager, “come on, you must... come on! Hurry!”

“ _What_ is going on?” Kili moans, propping himself up on his elbow, catching Fili's glance and reciprocating his rather dumb smile.

“Well, don't just sit there!” Bofur cries all but desperately, “it's Thorin! He's here, he's returned, he's... well, _come on!_ ”

And as he bolts upright in utter disbelief, Fili somehow finds a second to consider the utter ridiculousness of the situation. But Bofur is all but jumping up and down in sheer excitement, and Fili wonders, is it really possible? Does anyone really deserve so much luck at once? How is he not dreaming this? And, most importantly, how on earth will he get down all those flights of stairs in under an hour?!

“What, he just... _turned up?!”_ Kili exclaims, struggling with his trousers and boots.

“A runner came from Dain's camp!” Bofur all but shouts back, “he came on a boat not an hour ago, and he has Bilbo with him, and... _come on!_ ”

And to Fili, nothing could ever feel more unreal than speeding through the halls that just two days ago lay in utter darkness, but are now teeming with life, with the prospect of, after everything they've been through, finally, finally seeing his Uncle again. Kili slows down on his account, grabbing his hand, and the look they exchange just above the large staircase leading to the Main Hall says it all, really – if this is a dream, if the entirety of these last days are a dream, and they're in fact lying on the bottom of the Long Lake along with the dragon, then Mahal forbid anyone wakes them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wee~ell, here we go. This update took forever, and I'm sorry. I used to nurse the silly notion that I might be able to finish this fic before the new movie comes out, but I don't think that's happening! Also, about a week ago, I still thought I might actually bring the wordcount down a little bit, but here we go, another 24k MONSTER. It was originally supposed to end with the reunion itself, but you know me, I'm not a fan of nice, clear, normal endings. Sorry.


End file.
